Prologue
Most potent, grave, and Reverend Signiors, My very noble and approved good Masters Of Arts, ye Bachelors and Commoners, Ye Doctors, Proctors, Scholars, Dons, and Men, And last, not least, Subscribers, to whose kindness We owe our life; that we have rushed to print It is most true, true we have headlong rushed, The very head and front of our offending, Hath this extent, no more: and pray you all If any chaff be found amongst our Parodies, For the wheat’s sake, oh! pardon it!
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[Illustration: I]N giving the following Parodies on detached passages from the plays of Shakespeare, it must be stated, (though such a statement ought to be perfectly unnecessary,) that not the slightest disrespect is intended, either to the works themselves, or to that great author whose name, and fame, are dear to every Englishman.
Nearly every play written by Shakespeare has been burlesqued, and whenever one of the London theatrical managers produces a grand revival of a Shakespearian tragedy, a travestie of it is almost immediately produced, at one, or another, of the smaller houses, which provide fun for the laughter-loving public. There are many worthy people who take offence at this, and fail to see that such fun is of a very harmless description, and that no disrespect is intended to the immortal bard, who was not, himself, above introducing burlesques of his contemporaries, even in his most serious works.
This question was fully discussed in the London daily papers in August, 1883, àpropos of burlesques of The Tempest, and Hamlet, produced by Mr. John Hollingshead, at the Gaiety Theatre. Some of the letters then published throw considerable light on what had been previously done in the way of Shakespearian burlesques, and are also of interest as summing up the arguments, for and against, Parody and Burlesque in general.
Mr. Moy Thomas, the theatrical critic of the Daily News, thus introduced the subject in his weekly column, entitled――
THE THEATRES.
“We have received the following letter on the subject of the impending burlesques of ‘The Tempest,’ and ‘Hamlet,’ at the Gaiety Theatre. We may remind our readers that we described the project as ‘somewhat startling,’ while we called attention to the facts that the productions in question are to be avowedly ‘elaborate parodies,’ and that there is reason to believe that ‘if this experiment should be found to be suited to the tastes of the town Mr. Burnand’s process of adapting Shakespeare to “nineteenth century audiences” may be expected to continue.’ More than this, in the way of protest, it did not in the present stage of the project seem to us necessary to say in a column which is mainly devoted to dramatic news.”
“‘May I ask if it is possible that the dramatic critic of the Daily News means to pass over without a word of disapprobation the proposal to burlesque “Hamlet” and “The Tempest?” I think many people must have been as surprised as I was to read your intimation of it in last Monday’s issue uncoupled with any word of disapproval or disgust. Surely the English stage may well be thought by Englishmen to have reached its lowest point of degradation, and one strangely in contrast with the honour we profess to pay to it, when two of the finest plays and finest works in all literature are to be sacrificed to the passion for burlesque. We had better consider ourselves no longer the same nation, and cease to pride ourselves on having produced the foremost man in all literature when we descend to this without protest. I do not think any language can be too strong on such a subject from a lover of Shakespeare and of the stage, and one who cannot but contrast the present tastes of the public with the opinion formed of them by Milton two centuries ago;――“What wants there to such a towardly and pregnant soil but wise and faithful labourers to make a knowing people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies.’”――I am yours faithfully, W. KENNEDY.――Hampstead, August 16.”
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A few days later the following replies were published in The Daily News:――
Sir,――Your correspondent “Mr. Kennedy” speaks of a proposed new version of The Tempest, of a more or less burlesque character, as if I and Mr. Burnand had discovered a new crime. The World (in the absence of Mr. Yates) also follows suit. Messrs. F. Talfourd, Andrew Halliday, Robert Brough, and others were not afraid to to draw upon Shakespeare for their burlesques, and in the so-called “palmy days” of the drama the parodies of Shakespeare were frequent, coarse, and brutal. The subjects of many of Shakespeare’s plays were the common property of the dramatist long before the advent of the master, and if he were now alive he would probably be the last to object to treatment such as Goethe has received in every city in Europe.――I am, &c., JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD.――Gaiety Theatre, Strand.”
Sir,――This stir about The Tempest seems a storm in a teacup. Both “Mr. W. Kennedy, of Hampstead,” who naturally takes high ground, and your dramatic critic would have acted more justly to my forthcoming piece had they waited to see what it was before attempting to excite public prejudice against my work. There is an important distinction between what is commonly understood by “burlesquing Shakespeare,” by which is meant taking his lines and sentiments and giving them an absurd turn, and writing what is now-a-days styled a “burlesque version” (which is really an extravaganza) of a fairy tale which Shakespeare has immortalised, especially when Shakespeare himself has given the keynote for the fun, as he has done in The Tempest, no doubt with a full consciousness of its humour.
As the lawyer’s wisdom is popularly supposed to reside mainly in the wig, so the poet has made all Prospero’s magic art lie in his book, wand, and magic robes, without which he is powerless. When he does not wish to be professionally engaged he puts aside his “magic properties” and says “lie there my art.” When he is renouncing conjuring he buries his books of legerdemain, and has done with it for ever, retaining no sort of power independently of this magic receipt book, or as I shall struggle not to call it, in deference to Mr. Kennedy, of Hampstead to whom a pun on anything Shakespearian must appear quite too-too dreadful, his “spelling book.” Caliban is aware of this, and directs his efforts to possessing himself of this book. This perfectly admissible view of Prospero, together with the notion that he himself gives as to Ariel’s true character, has furnished me with the materials for an extravaganza at the Gaiety, which will be entitled Ariel, or, the King of the Caliban Island, of which the critics and public will form their judgment when it appears. En attendant, to raise a prejudice against my work is clearly unjust. Let me have fairplay even for an extravaganza founded on a Shakespearian fairy tale. “Atlas,” in the World, had an unfair note on this subject. I have written to him much as I have to you, but with a special “P.S.,” which I trust he will have the generosity to publish, pointing out that “Atlas” should be the last to brand as a crime burlesquing anything Shakesperian, as in his own paper a few weeks ago appeared the story of Hamlet travestied, and adapted to “nineteenth century” readers.――Yours faithfully, F. C. BURNAND.
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(To the Editor of the Daily News.)――Sir,――We are told that a parody in three or four acts of The Tempest is in preparation, and we are asked by the author to suspend judgment until its production. The appeal is at any rate superficially fair. But Mr. Burnand’s letter is not very reassuring. For instance, he calls the great play “a fairy tale,” i.e., he seems to put it on a level with “The White Cat” and “Puss in Boots.” But let that pass. All who reverence the great name of Shakespeare, and who are grateful for his noble plays (and they are numerous, whatever Mr. Burnand and Punch may think), will patiently await The King of the Caliban Island (what charming wit and taste!) leaning upon their swords. In any case Shakespeare’s memory cannot suffer. What is to be feared is the degradation of the stage which he ennobled, and of the actors and dramatic authors of whom he ought to be the proudest and most sacred boast.――I am, Sir, yours faithfully, AN OLD PLAYGOER. August 20, 1883.
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In the next weekly column of The Theatres (August 27, 1883,) Mr. Moy Thomas inserted another long letter, which had been addressed to him by Mr. F. C. Burnand, referring to his forthcoming burlesque upon Shakespeare’s Tempest:――
“I know you are not friendly to burlesques――and probably not to burlesque writers; still, as a critic, as a judge who will have to try the case, it is hardly fair to range yourself on the adverse side, and to make your verdict a foregone conclusion. Patience a moment, and hear――or read. The existence of Robson was an excuse for a burlesque on Shylock, and for one on Macbeth; also on Medea. Now, in looking about for a character, a novelty, for Miss Nelly Farren, who is a genius in her way, as Robson was in his――the notion of an Ariel struck me, and the more I considered it the more I liked it. I read the Tempest carefully, and saw how Shakespeare had given the chance of such a view of Ariel as the spirit of enterprise, and had struck the keynote of any amount of fun in the humorous notion of Prospero being absolutely dependent upon his “properties” for his magic power. Evidently he had not had them with him when he was turned adrift by Gonzago in a boat with his child; or rather, as he must have had them with him (according to his own account) they were so packed up he couldn’t get at them; otherwise, where would his enemies have been? Caliban’s one idea was to possess himself of the book. Well, in him I see a backward boy (done out of his rights, by the way), who, however, wants to acquire knowledge, and who does so in the end. How dull Miranda found the island you can judge from her speeches, and from her going to sleep when her father is prosing. The conspirators, and the remorseful king, are minor characters, calling for no particular remark, except as padding to sustain a weakish plot. Now what do I do? Burlesque it? Not in the sense in which I understand burlesque, as, for instance, I burlesqued Fédora, Diplomacy, Ouida’s Strathmore, &c., &c. No; but I take the story and give it a turn similar (though not the same) to what Thackeray gave to Ivanhoe in Rebecca and Rowena. He took up the tale where Scott left off, but he reproduced the scenes and characters under changed conditions. I take the story with its leading characters; I omit the tempest entirely (only a sea-fog, when Prospero had forecasted a “disturbance”), and Ariel, capable of assuming all sorts of shapes and forms, does so and wrecks the ship. The arrangement of scenes doesn’t follow the play. Of course Trinculo and Stephano are not in it, for no one making a new comic story could take them or Caliban as far as he is associated with them and make them more funny, whether in dialogue or in business (I know it all, having studied it) than they are in the piece. No one could take the Midsummer Night’s Dream and produce a modern extravaganza, though they might (as Planché did) use the fairies out of it, who are immortal. No one deprecates a vulgar, coarse piece of buffoonery by way of burlesque more than I do. I have undertaken this very work as an advance on Blue Beard, as Blue Beard was (though you would not recognise it) a distinct advance on what had preceded it. It forms one of the “burlesque drama” series――a generic title to which I have objections, but by which Mr. John Hollingshead sets store――and as it is a matter of indifference to the public whether what is really an extravaganza comes under the above heading, I havn’t any more to say, but the sum is that I am distinctly not burlesquing Shakespeare’s Tempest, as by burlesquing I understand my mode of treatment of Sardou’s Fédora, Diplomacy, Ouida’s Strathmore, &c., &c.”
In September 1883, Mr. Hollingshead also wrote to the _Daily News_ as follows:――
“It may interest those who are curious in theatrical history to learn that the last London performance of “The Enchanted Isle,” a burlesque upon Shakespeare’s “Tempest,” by William and Robert Brough, was played at Drury Lane Theatre on the 25th July, 1860, for the benefit of the widow and children of Robert Brough, one of the authors. The cast was as follows: Ariel, Miss Kate Terry, (then in the height of her popularity); Ferdinand, Mrs. Alfred Mellon (Miss Woolgar); Miranda, Miss Fanny Stirling (a daughter of Mrs. Stirling, her first appearance on the stage); Caliban, Mr. F. Talfourd; Alonzo, Mr. George Cruikshank; Prospero, Mr. Leicester Buckingham; and Trinculo, by the writer of this note.”
Mr. Moy Thomas followed up this letter by stating that:――-
“Mr. Burnand and has unearthed in the British Museum library an acting copy of Davenant and Dryden’s version of the “Tempest; or the Enchanted Isle,” which he will probably expound for the benefit of readers in an early number of Punch. Sir Walter Scott’s account of this piece is perhaps worth transcribing here:――‘It seems probable that Dryden furnished the language, and Davenant the plan, of the new characters introduced. They do but little honour to his invention, although Dryden has highly extolled it in his preface. The idea of a counterpart to Shakspeare’s plot by introducing a man who had never seen a woman, as a contrast to a woman who had never seen a man, and by furnishing Caliban with a sister-monster, seems hardly worthy of the delight with which Dryden says he filled up the characters so sketched. In mixing his tints Dryden did not omit that peculiar colouring in which his age delighted. Miranda’s simplicity is converted into indelicacy…. The play seems to have succeeded to the utmost wish of the authors. It was brought out in the Duke’s house [Lincoln’s-inn-fields Theatre, November, 1667], of which Davenant was the manager, with all the splendour of scenic decoration of which he was the inventor. The opening scene was described as being particularly splendid, and the performance of the spirits with mops and mows excited general applause!’”
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HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY.
No one passage from the plays of Shakespeare has been so frequently parodied, and imitated, as the celebrated Soliloquy commencing “TO BE, OR NOT TO BE.” The following version of the original is taken from the famous Folio edition of Shakespeare’s works put forth in 1623. In addition to the quaint orthography, there are one or two verbal differences between this, and the version given in modern editions of the poet’s works; notably the expression “the poor man’s contumely,” which is now generally printed as “the proud man’s contumely:”――
Enter Hamlet.
Ham.――To be, or not to be, that is the Question: Whether ’tis Nobler in the minde to suffer The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune, Or to take Armes against a Sea of troubles, And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleepe No more; and by a sleepe, to say we end The Heart-ake, and the thousand Naturall shockes That Flesh is heyre too? ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To dye, to sleepe, To sleepe, perchance to Dreame; I, there’s the rub, For in that sleepe of death, what dreames may come, When we have shuffle’d off this mortall coile, Must give us pawse. There’s the respect That makes Calamity of so long life; For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time, The Oppressors wrong, the poore man’s Contumely, The pangs of dispriz’d Love, the Lawes delay, The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himselfe might his Quietus make With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardles beare, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered Countrey, from whose Borne No Traveller returnes, Puzels the will, And makes us rather beare those illes we have, Than flye to others that we know not of. Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all, And thus the Native hew of Resolution Is sicklied o’re, with the pale cast of Thought, And enterprizes of great pith and moment, With this regard their Currants turne away, And loose the name of Action. Soft you now, The faire Ophelia? Nimph, in thy Orizons Be all my sinnes remembred. The Tragedie of Hamlet.
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Amongst the announcements for April, 1846, in George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack appeared the following:――
APRIL.
The Shakespeare Jubilee Festival will be celebrated at the “Only National Theatre” on the 23rd, with the following performances:――
The Grand Opera of ‘HAMLET;’ the Music by Mr. Balfe; the libretto by Messrs. Shakespeare and Bunn.
From the Opera, the following song may be predicted to be sung by the first tenor, Hamlet:――
“TO BE, OR NOT TO BE.”
“Oh say! To be, or not to be? That is the question grave; To suffer Fortune’s slings and darts, Or seas of troubles brave. To die, to sleep! perchance, to dream!―― Ay, there’s the rub! when we Have shuffled off this mortal coil!―― To be, or not to be!
Oh! who would bear time’s whips and scorns, The pangs of disprized love; When he might his quietus make By one bare bodkin’s shove? Who would these fardels bear, unless That bourne he could foresee, From which no traveller returns!―― To be, or not to be!”
Arrangements will be made for the characters to promenade in the daytime full dressed, upon the top of the Portico, to the Music of the Orchestra in Beef-eaters dresses. The pageant will be very splendid.
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To be or not to be?――that is the question; Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer Vile strokes and scratches from outrageous Pens, Or to take up THATCHER’S, ’gainst a sea of others, And, using it, to end them? To write――with ease―― For ever! And with that ease to say we end The headache and the thousand natural shocks Which clerks are heir to――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished! To write――with ease―― With ease! enhanced to speed! Aye, there’s the rub! As ’tis with ease of Pen our thoughts will flow, Now we have shuffled off that mortal toil We cease to pause! Here’s the good Pen That lessens the calamities of life; For who will suffer the whips and scorns of time, The writer’s wrongs, the schoolmaster’s contumely? The fangs of despised Pens, cause of delays A nuisance in an office, and the spurns Which patient merit of Pen unworthy takes, When he himself can his quietus make By using THATCHER’S? Who would Gillott’s bear, Or grunt and sweat over a Mitchell’s J, When but the act of trying THATCHER’S Pen, That well-discovered luxury, from which boon No traveller will turn, puzzles no will, And makes us cease to bear the ills we had―― To write with comfort, which we knew not of? As knowledge should make wise men of us all, Then let the native hue of resolution Stick fast no more, ’til this good Pen is sought; And enterprises of great pith and moment With this resolve their currents turn or glide The Pen, the spring, of action! SHAKESPEN.
This trade Parody was written by Mr. T. THATCHER, of College Green, Bristol.
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The following Parody appeared originally in Punch, February 9, 1884, and was afterwards reprinted, without the slightest acknowledgement, in a silly little pamphlet entitled “The Burlesque of Liberal Government,” published by Stoneham, of Cheapside, in 1884. It referred to Sir William Vernon Harcourt’s proposals to reform the abuses in the government of the Metropolis:――
IRRESOLUTION.
SCENE――_The Home Office――Tables covered with huge heaps of official returns, from the Corporation, the Metropolitan Board of Works, and the Thirty-Eight Districts of the Metropolis._
The HOME SECRETARY discovered, looking weary and worn. He throws himself back in his uneasy chair, and soliloquises_――
To be, or not to be, that is the question;―― Whether ’tis better for awhile to suffer The harmless follies of the Corporation; Or to bring on myself a sea of troubles, Much easier raised than ended? To pass my Bill,―― No more: and by a Bill, to say we end The headache, and the thousand natural worries That place is heir to. ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d? To pass my Bill;―― To pass! perchance to fail;――ay, there’s the rub! And in that fierce debate what Cads will come, When they have shuffled much in that turmoil, And give me their paws! There’s the respect That makes calamity of my bored life; For who would bear the patronage of FIRTH, The oppressive candour of that proud man BEALE, The pangs of chaffing DILKE, SELBORNE’S delay, The insolence of CHAMBERLAIN, and the spurns My patient merit of the PREMIER takes, When he himself might peace and quiet make By mere inaction? Who would boredom bear, To groan and sweat under official life, But that the thought of doing something great―― That undiscovered thing, that seldom comes To poor Home Secretaries――urges me on, Though I would rather bear the ills we have, Than fly to others that I know not of? Thus, too, sharp Londoners, poor cowards all, May think――if so, I pall in resolution. My enterprise, though of great pith and moment, Which none regard, and which seems all awry, Loses the name of action.
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“Messrs. Chatto and Windus――Heaven bless them for their generosity!――sent me the other day a copy of Mark Twain’s new book, ‘Huckleberry Finn.’ The book is an extremely funny book; but, for all that, I couldn’t make out why it was sent to me until I came upon an entirely new reading of Hamlet’s soliliquy. Messrs. C. and W. evidently wish me to say, and I do so with great pleasure, that Mr. Mark Twain’s new reading is at least as original, and very much more entertaining, than the new readings with which we are nowadays so constantly inundated. Let readers judge for themselves:”
To be or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life; For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane, But that the fear of something after death Murders the innocent sleep, Great nature’s second course, And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune Than fly to others that we know not of. There’s the respect must give us pause: Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The law’s delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn In customary suits of solemn black, But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns, Breathes forth contagion on the world, And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i’ the adage, Is sicklied o’er with care, And all the clouds that lowered o’er our housetops, With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair Ophelia; Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, But get thee to a nunnery――go! CARADOS. The Referee, Dec. 21, 1884.
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SOLILOQUY ON SPECULATION.
To act, or not to act, that is the question? Whether ’tis better for the purse to suffer, The stocks and shares to fall without a “spec” Or to proceed against this sea of bubbles And venture a transaction? To bull, to bull No more; but by a bear to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks The “House” is heir to――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To bear――to sell To bear――watch settling day! ay――there’s the rub For in that sale of stock what wealth may come Ay, marry and go, if we bear not in mind, We must buy back.――There’s the respect. That makes a bubble stock of so long life For who would bull, who now can see the past, Directors deeds and chairmen’s soft smooth words; The pangs of broken faith, the laws delay The insolence of office, and the spurns, Impatient shareholders are forced to take, When he himself might a large fortune make, With a “Bear Broker”? Who would railways bull To grunt and sweat as each account comes round, But for the hope that things may take a turn That “Boards” may learn a lesson from the “Times” And travellers increase――puzzles the will And makes us rather bear the ills we have Than bear the stocks and shares we know not of. Thus fear of risk makes cowards of us all, And thus the bull’s enticing dream of hope Is sicklied o’er with the misdeeds of Boards. And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard, their interest turn awry, And cause us doubt in action. ANONYMOUS.
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To the L. H. A. S. T. M.――“I have the honour to announce that, as an earnest searcher after truth, my recent efforts have been rewarded beyond my most sanguine expectations. To the subscriber has been accorded the distinguished honour of being the medium of exposing to the world a literary gem, which, under other auspices, would probably never have seen the light; and mankind would have remained in utter ignorance of the great treasure herewith reproduced for the delectation of the S. T. M.’s. Those distinguished archæologists and Biblicists exhumed the original manuscript from beneath the corner-stone of the first Solomonial edifice; therefore its authenticity and antiquity are indubitable, while the sound philosophy, immense depth of thought and convincing logic, reminds us of the divine Shakespeare. Let it speak for itself.” BRICKS, JR.
POME――FRAGMENT. Hemlock, Prince of Dunkirk.
Hemlock (solus)――To affiliate, or not to affiliate, that is the question―― Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The stings and taunts of official lunkheads Or to take up arms against their petty torments And, by opposing, end them. To affiliate――to disburse No more――and by disbursing, to say we end The contemptuous glances and the frowning looks That non-affiliation brings us, ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To be willing to pay――to be proposed―― To be proposed; perchance to be rejected. Ay, there’s the rub, For, in that rejection, what heart-burnings, what bitter thoughts may come when the finger points――unworthy! Must give us pause. There’s the consideration That produces doubt and misgiving, For who would bear the whips and scorn of temporizers The pains and penalties of Section Forty-two―― The deprivation of visitation――_the interment Prohibited_――the funeral interdicted――the Charity Recalled――that great channel through which God passes all his mercy upon mankind; The insolence of office-holding rings, and sich, When he himself might be relieved by disbursing “Four dollars and nine-shilling”――but for a knowledge That a lust for power (precursor of dissolution) the ambition Which with haughty tread doth trample Charity in the dust, While judgment, directed by circumspection, Hath taken wings and flown to parts unknown, To know our offerings at Charity’s shrine are diverted To organs grand, and gorgeous halls, Services of plate, banquets grand, and the pendant liquids And ten thousand other reasons, which salary lists proclaim, Make us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to those we know too much of.
PATERFAMILIAS AS HAMLET.
Ham.――To bake, or not to bake, that is the question:―― Whether ’tis better for ourselves to make Digestive, light, sweet, wholesome home-made bread; Or to take in tradesmen’s loaves against our sense, And, nothing heeding, eat them?――To eat――eat what?―― The trough’s abominations without end: The cockroach! a thousand unnatural things The bakehouse teems with,――’tis adulteration Devoutly to be shun’d. Impure? Or pure? ’Praps pure! perchance impure:――ay, there’s the rub; For in this loaf of bread what dirt may come From unclean baker at his midnight toil, Must give us pause: There’s the respect That takes all relish from the staff of life: For who that reads his Lancet, or his Times, Would eat this stuff the baker sends, contentedly, Knowing full well from analysts’ reports And sanitary officers’ returns, The noisome mysteries of the baker’s art, When he himself bread, cakes, and scones may make With Borwick’s Baking Powder?
Funny Folks, December, 1883.
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HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY ON THE TURKISH BATH. SCENE――Opposite the Turkish Bath, West Street, Brighton.
Ham.――To bathe, or not to bathe,――that is the question; Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer The aches and pangs of disordered nature, Or to take baths against a sea of troubles And by so doing end them? To strip――to sweat, No more; and, by a roast, to say we end The headache, and a thousand natural ills That flesh is heir to,――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To strip,――to sweat:―― To sweat! and be shampooed:――aye, there’s the rub; For in that heat such evils may remove We need not shuffle off this mortal coil, But save our lives. ’Tis this experience That makes so many take the Turkish Bath; For who would bear the whips and stings of pain, The consumptive’s cough, the fat man’s obesity, The pangs of dyspepsia, or Bright’s disease, The torturings of asthma, or the woes That Alcohol upon the inebriate brings, When he himself might his deliverance take With a bare body? Who would rheumatism bear, And grunt and groan under a weary life? But that an ignorance of Turkish baths, Those re-discovered pleasures, unto which Wise travellers return, doth still prevail, And makes us tamely bear those ills we have, Heedless of remedies that we know not of. Thus ignorance oft makes wretches of us all; And thus the native hue of health and vigour Is sicklied o’er with the pallor of disease. But thus, I ween, it shall not be with me; The good I know, and oft have tried, again I will embrace. Clerk, in thy dressing rooms Hast thou a place for me? ANONYMOUS.
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SEASONABLE SOLILOQUY.
To Bee, or not to Bee, that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous spelling, Or to take arms ’gainst orthographic troubles, And, by the Dictionary, end them!
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A PUGILISTIC SOLILOQUY.
To box, or not to box? That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous passions, Or to take heart, like Humphreys and Mendoza, And, by opposing, end them. To strip, to bare, No more! and by this movement, say we end The heart-ache, and a thousand galling jeers The passive’s heir to;――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To strip――to square―― To fight;――perchance be beat:――aye, there’s the rub! For by that daring step, what blows may come, When we have shuffled off our coats and shirts, Must give us pause. There’s the respect, That makes this diffidence of so long life; For who would bear the taunts and sneers o’ the mob, The pangs of being unknown, and fame’s delay, The porter’s wrongs, the coal heaver’s contumely The ins’lence of profession, and the spurns That patient merit of the pug’list takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a well-planted blow? Who’d reproaches bear, To fret and fume beneath a doubtful state, But that a dread of something on the Stage, (The undetermin’d trial, from whose bourne Earle ne’er returned,) puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of. This fear of drubbing makes us cowards all; And thus the wish of native resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear, And the skill’d manœuvres in each well-graced ring, With this respect their profits turn away, And lose the fame of boxing. ANONYMOUS.
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The Electors of Barrhead, by 570 to 317, have gone against erecting their town into a Burgh. Coatbridge, with a population of 20,000 or 30,000, is also agitating on this subject. Saltcotians are meantime deeply interested in the question――and the struggle between the burgh and anti-burgh party, as must always be the case when the powers of dirt and darkness, and light and cleanliness, come into collision with each other, promises to be a keen one. According to a native residing in Glasgow, “Insider” ruminates and thus soliloquises:――
“INSIDER’S” SOLILOQUY. (With apologies to the shade of Shakespeare.)
Burgh, or No-Burgh――that’s the question:―― Whether ’tis nobler in the town to suffer The gibes and scorn of all who visit it; Or to become a Burgh, and so end, Once and for ever end them?――Being then A Burgh, it will end its dirt and darkness, Ruin and danger.――’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To be a Burgh! Perchance to pay a tax;――ay, there’s the rub; For in that tax what shillings we may pay, When we have wakened from our old-world sleep, Must give us pause; there’s the respect That makes our slothfulness of so long life: For who would bear to walk, with fear and care, Adown the ruined Quay, or try to gain, O’er heaps of broken walls, the sandy shore; Or pick his steps in the dim-lighted streets, Through muddy holes and ancient filthiness, When he himself his safety might ensure By voting for the Burgh? Who would bear To see his native town a laughing stock; But that the thought of something afterwards―― The dread of Burgh taxes, which may grow Greater each year――puzzles the will; And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of; Thus does our greediness become our bane; And thus, to save our purses, we oppose The Burgh movement; for we fondly hope To dupe the working men, and frighten all Who love their purses better than their health, And lapse into our old inaction.
The Ardrossan and Saltcoats Herald, February, 1884.
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THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION, NO. 197.
The prize of two guineas for the best original parody of Hamlet’s soliloquy, with reference to the Suez Canal question, was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, 96, Gore Road, Victoria Park, for the following:――
GLADSTONE’S SOLILOQUY.
To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis prudent for the House to suffer The fierce, protracted, venomous discussion, Or to shake off the coils of this agreement, And for the present waive it? To win: to lose What more? entail defeat and ne’er regain The faith, esteem, and people’s confidence That we are used to, ’tis humiliation Liberals must avoid. To win, to lose; To lose the love of France: ay, there’s the rub; For with that loss of love what may arise When we’ve insulted her, and can’t retract, Must give us pause; there is the chance To shake our alliance of so long time. And who would have to bear the blame of all? The enormous loan, the widespread disapproval, The present shareholders, the law against us, The snubs when out of office, and the hate Of all our vast commercial agencies, When he in time can extricate himself Without a blemish? Who would these risks incur To put the test under an adverse fire, But with the hope that some good may arise? The overgrowing country from whose shores The mariner departs, enters the mind And makes us rather look ahead to-day Than lie asleep whilst others claim the palm. Yet second thoughts are wiser, after all; And thus my former full determination Gives way before the strong opposing force; The enterprise, though great and costly also, I still regard, but now must turn away Amidst dissatisfaction.
The four following parodies, on the same topic, were also printed:――
To yield, or not to yield; that is the question; Whether ’tis wiser that my party bear The jeers and scoffings of the Tory rabble, Or to stand bravely ’gainst their blust’ring onset, And by opposing beat them? To vote; to win; No more; and by a vote to say we end The torture and the thousand natural fears That we are heirs to, ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To vote, to win; To win: perchance to fail; ay, there’s the rub; For in that dread event what woes may come When we are left in thin minority, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of party life; For who would bear Sir Stafford’s taunting smile, Cynic Cecil’s chuckle, country’s contumely, The pangs of sore defeat, the law’s delay, Conservatives in office, and the spurns That fallen power from parasites must take, When I myself can calm commotion’s roar With my well-known talent? Who would office bear, To toil and legislate for thankless men, But that the fear of Tories gaining pow’r, Those owl-tongued peace-disturbers from whose tongues No sound but hate can come, puzzles the will And makes us bear content the ills we have Than risk the presence of a Jingo curse? Thus consequence makes cowards of us all; And thus my native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And my pet project of a Suez Canal, With this regard its current fails to take; Let Northcote take his action. ARAMIS.
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Canal, or no canal: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The wrath of shipowners who’d mend their fortune, Or take upon us more Egyptian troubles, And by “investing” vex them? To spend; to spout; No more; and by a “vote” to say we’ll end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That greed is heir to. Is this a consummation Devoutly to be wished? To vote, to lend; Perchance to lose eight millions; there’s the rub; For in this loan of ours what loss may come Ere we would shuffle off responsibility, There’s time to pause: there’s the respect, That makes “annexing” fruitful of long strife; For who would bear the whips and scorns of foes, The oppressor’s wrong, the victor’s contumely, The pangs of despised race, their rights’ delay, The insolence of conquest, and the spurns, The patient fellah (fellow) of the unkindly takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bayonet? Should we burdens bear, To pay stockjobbers and their risks to share, But that the hope of something afterwards, The undiscovered but expected boon, The speculator’s rich return, pleases the will And makes us rash to dare this foreign venture, And buy up “shares” we have no warrant of. Thus Mammon does make victims of us all; And thus our native, honest resolution Is weakened e’er by greedy thought of gain, And enterprises of more pith and moment We disregard, their currents turn awry, And thus we lose the means of nobler action. F. BEAUMONT COTTIER.
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To dig, or not to dig; that’s what doth pest one: Whether ’tis wiser on our part to offer Eight millions――and it is no narrow fortune―― Or fold our arms because we see these troubles, And end the din of words? To pause: to take our chance; E’en so; and by the act to say we’re sick Of all the bosh men talk; and to hear more We cannot bear to. ’Twere a realisation That must please us. To pause, to take our chance; To take our chance; perhaps be fooled; ay, that’s the point; For in the Frenchmen’s hand what cards may come When he alone doth shuffle them! He’d spoil For us the game. He can’t expect We’ll cease, for love of amity, from strife; For who would bear, forsooth, for so long time, The outrageous wrong, the proud man’s triumphing, The being beat, the excessive dues to pay, The chaff of grinning Frenchmen, and the sneers That easy John Bull far too often brooks, When we ourselves may our conditions make, Nor do an odd thing? Who would knuckle down, And pay the piper as we’re asked to do, But that the dread of being talked to death, A fate to be discovered none too soon As hanging over us, quite makes us ill, And makes us rather rest with what we have Than try to get what others owe not of? Thus love of quiet doth make noodles of us all: And thus, though we discern rare elocution, We fickly fail, alas! so to be taught, One criticises till there comes a moment When we can have no finger in the pie, And all through our inaction. T. M. DRON.
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To pay, or not to pay: that was the question; Whether ’twas best with one canal to suffer, And trade to harass for the Frenchman’s fortune, Or to take heart ’gainst this canal of troubles, A scheme propose, and end them? To make it deep; Nay, more; both wide and deep is, p’r’aps, a way to end And obviate the thousand natural blocks That ships declare to. ’Tis hallucination, And scarcely to be wished, to try and keep As ’tis, perchance, this stream where vessels rub; For with increase of trade what ships may come When we have shuffled off this monstrous toll? Now let us pause: there’s the respect We yield Lesseps, his useful and long life, Who bore for this the scorns of other times, His opponents’ wrong, the proud “Pam’s” contumely, The pangs of jealous hate: the long delays, The insolence of scoffers and the turns The patient Frenchman saw this project take, While he his channel still successful made―― Unlike Sir Watkin! Oh, if ’twas hard to bear The grudged four millions during Dizzy’s life (That give but doubtful ’vantage since his death), An undiscovered boon from which we get No adequate returns, this puzzle o’ Will’s Would make us rather bear the tolls we have Than strive for others at so vast a price? Thus caution does make now our statesmen pause; And thus was fated soon this resolution; For, sicklied o’er with the pale cast of cost, This enterprise who could hold with a moment? In this regard ’twas bound to turn awry, Or lose the nation’s sanction. LEONARD HARDING. The Weekly Dispatch, August 5, 1883.
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BY AN ATTORNEY.
To cheat or not to cheat, that is the question; Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer The stings and gnawings of a troubled conscience, Or bravely spurn corruptions gilded baits, And, by rejecting, ’scape ’em? To cheat, to need No more; and by such gain, to say we end The thousand hardships which the poor man seems To be born heir to; ’tis a consummation Too often wished by us; to cheat unseen To cheat――perchance be caught; ay, there’s the rub; For by discovery what shame may come When we have lost the necessary mask, Must give us pause; there is the respect That makes dishonesty embitter life: For who would bear the gibes and taunts of men, The oppressed’s curse, the good man’s contumely, The pangs of unpaid fees, the laws severity In taxing bills, and the harsh reprimands That merit often to th’unworthy gives, When he in peace might his quietus make On a poor farm. Who would long parchments write, And scrawl and pause amidst a heap of nonsense? But that the dread of ghastly poverty, Whose horrid visage, like the Gorgon’s head, No mortal dares behold, startles the mind And makes us rather choose those ills we have Than suffer others that we dread far worse. Thus avarice makes rascals of us all, And thus the comely face of honesty, Is tarnished o’er by ill-designing knaves, Who toil among the labyrinths of law, In search of matter to perplex mankind And leave the paths of wisdom. ANONYMOUS.
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HAMLET ON THE SITUATION. (Perplexed Premier Ponders.)
Clôture, or no Clôture? That is the question:―― Whether ’tis better, on the whole, to suffer The waste and worry of malign obstruction, Or to take arms against the plague of spouters, And, by mouth-closing, foil them. To rise――to vote―― No more; and, by a vote, to find we end The boredom and the thousand Warton “blocks” The Session’s heir to. ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To rise――to vote―― To vote! Perchance to gag. Ay, there’s the rub; For from that Vote what tyranny may come, When we have wriggled from Obstruction’s coil Must give us pause. There’s the consideration That makes endurance of so long a life. For who would bear the quips and quirks of BARTLETT, Tart BIGGAR’S tongue, O’DONNELL’S contumely, The gibes of gadfly GORST, WARTON’S delay, The cheek of callow CHURCHILL, and the spurns That patient FORSTER of rude HEALY takes, When he to them might their quietus give With a bare majority? Who’d night sittings bear, To yawn and faint for twenty weary hours, But that the fear of after-hurt to freedom―― That glory of our country, whose wide bourn No Liberal would limit, clogs the will, And makes us rather bear the ills we have, Than fly to others that we may not measure. Thus caution does make cowards of us all; And thus the Statesman’s native resolution, Is hampered by the cobweb coils of doubt, And politicians of great pith and prowess, From this reform their faces turn aside, Dreading the name of――Clôture.
Punch, February 4, 1882.
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To come! or not to come? That’s the question! Whether it is better to take French leave, Or to obey the calls of an outrageous audience, And by appearing end them? To come! to speak! no more; And by that speech to say, I thank ye for this crowded house. This is a consummation devoutly to be wished. To come! to speak! to speak, perchance to stick; Aye, there’s the rub, for after this final speech, I wish those dreams may come, When I have shuffled off this mimic toil, That tell me I have merited your applause. There’s the respect that makes the memory Of your favours of so long life; For who would strut, and rehearse long parts, To groan and sweat under some worrying manager, But that the dread of a bad benefit, An empty theatre, from whose pit and boxes No profits are returned――puzzles the pocket, And makes us rather keep those shin-plasters we have, Than fly to dollars that we know not of; Thus interest does make converts of us all, And thus my resolution to leave New York Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought; And though my speech is not quite pithy at this moment, As on the East River’s current I do turn away, Your kindness I’ll remember, till I lose the name of Finn.
HENRY J. FINN.
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Compromise or no compromise, that is――one must of course quote from Hamlet just now――the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind――I mean the Marquis――to suffer the Franchise Bill to pass, or to take arms against the Commons, and, by opposing, end the Lords――or mend them. To speak, to vote――no more; and by a vote to end the heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks their Lordships have of late received. To vote, perchance to lose the day. Ay, there’s the rub; for in that loss what――――? But it’s quite impossible to go on any longer in this strain. In fact, the strain’s too much. Perhaps it will prove too much for his Lordship. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!
Funny Folks, Nov. 1, 1884.
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WHETHER MARRIED LADIES OUGHT TO DANCE?
To dance, or not to dance: that is the question: Whether ’tis better in the matron to avoid The turns and whirls of an outrageous waltz, And to take arms against the steps of ball-rooms, And by opposing, shirk them? To skip; to whirl; No more. And for a dame to say, she’ll not thus end The day, and all the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to――it is a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To skip――to whirl―― To reel; perchance to fall: ay! there’s the rub; For in that fall what sad mishaps may come, If not to shuffle off her mortal coil, Must give her pause. Then to reflect―― Whether a dance is necessary to her life Why should she bear the wheels and turns of time The orchestra inflicts, her partner’s impetuosity, The pangs of dissipated time, the late hours’ delay, The rotation of the ball-room, and the chills That she may feel, when she departure takes, When she herself might her quietus make By her own fireside? Who would fardels bear, And puff and stew under a gas-lit roof, Did she not think there’s something pleasant there―― Some undiscover’d measure, from whence to charm With renew’d returns, puzzles the will And makes her bear the pills and draughts, Or fly to other drugs she knows not of? So conscience may cause refrain from all And thus the native hue of resolution Is sickled o’er with the pale cast of thought, And entertainments of great glare and moment, With less regard, the current of her thoughts May turn away, and lose the name of action. THE SWAN’S GHOST (Second Appearance). Judy, December 13, 1871.
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HAMLET IN A STATE OF LIQUOR.
To drink, or not to drink, that is the question; Whether ’tis nobler for a man to suffer The desperate longings of outrageous thirst, Or take up the bottle against a sea of troubles, And by drinking, end them? To drink――to Stagger――no more, and by a fall to say we get Headache, and the thousand natural shocks Which the drunkard is heir to.――’Tis a Consummation devoutly to be dreaded! To fall――to sleep perchance――and waken In the station-house! Aye! there’s the rub! For in that drunken scene what falls, what Bruises, what fines from the Mayor may come When we have shuffled off the Jailer Should well be pondered.―― There’s the cause that makes the drunkard’s So short a life. For who would bear The jeers and scorns of men; the employer’s Wrong; the sober men’s contumely; the pang Of rejected love; the uncertainty of office; And the spurns that patient sobriety to inebriates Gives, when he himself might his life prolong By taking “the pledge?” Who would then “Mint Juleps” drink, to reel and totter Into a dirty gutter? When the dread of something After one gets home, puzzles the will, And makes us rather throw the spirits That we have away! than fly To a wife’s angry spirits we know too well of. Thus whisky does make drunkards of us all Who lack the native hue of resolution; And man’s nose is sicklied o’er with the red cast Of drink! and all his limbs Their motions turn awry, And lose their power of――Equilibrium.
American Paper.
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To drink, or not to drink? That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler inwardly to suffer The pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach, Or to take brandy-toddy ’gainst the colic, And by imbibing, end it? To drink――to sleep―― To snore; and, by a snooze, to say we end The headache, and the morning’s parching thirst, That drinking’s heir to;――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To drink――to pay―― To pay the waiter’s bill? Ay, there’s the rub; For in that snipe-like bill a stop may come, When we would shuffle off our mortal score, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes sobriety of so long date; For who could bear to hear the glasses ring In concert clear――the chairman’s ready toast, The pops of out-drawn corks――the “hip hurrah!” The eloquence of claret――and the songs Which often through the noisy revel break, When a man might his quietus make With a full bottle? Who would sober be, Or sip weak coffee through the livelong night; But that the dread of being laid upon That stretcher by policemen borne, on which The reveller reclines,――puzzles me much, And makes me rather tipple gingerbeer, Than fly to brandy, or to Hodge’s gin, Thus poverty doth make us Temp’rance men. X. X. TEETOTALLER. Punch, October 30, 1841.
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Enter HAMLET (advances thoughtfully to front, and produces a bottle, labelled “Old Tom.”)
To drink, or not to drink? That is the question. Whether ’tis better to let cares infest one, And put up with misfortunes, such as are A wicious mother and a poison’d Pa,―― Or, with this pocket pistol to my brain, Plunge in Blue Ruin the Blue Devil’s train! To drink――to feel with each successive “go” Some pang depart, till Hope alone doth glow, As in Pandora’s reticule――the plan Looks a good opening for a nice young man! So easy too――to drink, to sleep, to dream―― There’s more in that though than at first doth seem; For I have heard the restless toper knows (When he has shuffled off his bed the clothes) Nocturnal horrors! Spirits, floor’d by day, Rise up in vengeance, and assert their sway:―― Some grin like gurgoyles; like night-mares infest His sleep, and chaff him; some upon his breast Dance endless Polkas; some fan fever’s flame,―― Vex him with thirst, and of his thirst make game; Bring Schweppe’s ic’d waters to his dreaming gaze―― Just to his mouth the claret cup they raise―― And while, like Tantalus, he may not sip, Cool lumps of “Wenham” bob against his lip! ――――I will not drink! No bottle imp shall make Of me a Sponge, and then a Tipsy Cake. Yet I’ve a deed to do, and need to prime, Like a mild lover at the “popping” time; Like cockney fox-hunter of lily heart, Who needs the jumping-powder ere he start; Like the dread toothache’s victim, ere he try The artist who can draw on ivory; Like waking men who find, that over-night They’ve lost a sum, ’tis not convenient quite To pay; or those by whose bed-side doth stand The punctual Second, pistol-case in hand! Like――Soft, she comes, I must feign mad a-while; If the cook flirts, the goose is sure to spile.
From Hamlet Travestie, a clever Burlesque in two acts, written by a son of the late Serjeant Talfourd, and published by J. Vincent, of Oxford, in 1849.
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To dun, or not to dun? That is the question! Whether ’tis better that the purse should suffer For lack of cash, by baneful emptiness, Or by a gentle dun to fill it up? To dun――to be denied――denied with “call again;” Ah! there’s the rub! for in that “call again” What evils come――what disappointment sore―― Chagrin and woe; what time is wasted? What shoes are worn, in consequence, Must give us pain. ’Tis this that makes so many debts not worth collecting; ’Tis this which sickens business to despair, And keeps from honest labour its reward! While thus in language of complaint we speak, We dont forget our many many friends; To them our gratitude we owe, To them our gratitude we freely pay; Buoyed by their kindness, still our bark shall sail, Enjoy the pleasing calm―― Nor dread the boist’rous gale.
The Mirror, July 19, 1823.
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AN APROPOS SOLILOQUY. BY A GIRL OF THE PERIOD.
To dye, or not to dye, that is the question:―― “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer” Th’ outrageous colour of Dame Nature born, The very “head and front of my offending” Against the fiat of chameleon Fashion, Or summon Art to aid me? Shall I end This heart-ache by the “hazard of a dye” That Fashion dooms my hair to?――Dye:――a wash:―― No more:――Poison, perhaps? ay, that’s the rub To bring paralysis: the ‘harmless wash’ With lead and sulphur, from the depths profound Of Acheron, is loaded: and who knows But when I shuffle off last season’s coil, And tone the little hair I call my own To match my latest chignon’s altered hue, Disease in my ‘frizzettes’ may lurk unseen, Stride my back-comb, or stalk with cat-like tread Along the parting? Let me pause, and think How much respect to chemistry be due―― For who would bear the sneers and up-turned nose Of female friend, the criticising eye Of street-cad,――when (as all the papers tell) She can herself the remedy procure For thirteen stamps――but that a hazy dread Of something that may happen cramps the will, And knowledge makes a coward of the purse? ’Tis too much proved:――yet I obey thy call, Stern mother of invention! Truefitt, in thy orisons Be all my fears remembered.
The Tomahawk, January 30, 1869.
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A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S SOLILOQUY.
A flea or not a flea? that is the question: Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer The stings and arrows of this insect torture, Or to take arms against the flea that troubles, And, by well squeezing, end him. I’ll try to sleep Once more, and in that sleep I may some rest In part take, and forget the thousand shocks My flesh is bare to. ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. I’ll try to sleep A sleep without a dream, (Oh, there’s a rub!) Yet in that sleep of mine what fleas may come, When this perchance has ceased his awful toil, And fill their maws! There’s the respect That keeps me wide awake through all the night, Oh! did I bear a whip, ’twould be no crime To work the oppressor’s wrong. For who would bear The pangs of flea-bit nose, what people say The insolence of scoffers, and the turns Which, all impatient, through the night he takes, When he himself could his quietus make Could he but catch his foe? Who would bear Candles, and sweat under a weary search, And set, perhaps, the bed-clothes in a blaze, And thereby haply reach that burn from which No traveller returns? Puzzle who will, I’d rather bear this single flea I have Than wake up others that I know not of; My conscience tells me ’tis a coward’s thought. Another bite! Another resolution! Without avail is further waste of thought. Thus from my couch uprise I in a moment, With swift regard the bed-clothes turned awry, And take the field of action. JAMES ROBINSON. The Weekly Dispatch, September 26, 1880
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OPHELIA’S VERSION.
To go, or not to go, that is the question Whether ’tis nobler in the maid, to share The slights and sorrows of a faded train, Or to take steps unto the “Tempus Sale,” And, by a purchase, end them? To go,――to buy, No more; and at a glance to find I end The heartache, and the thousand horrid rents My dress is heir to――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To go――to buy, To buy! perchance too much; aye, there’s the rub; For in that Sale of Sales, what dreams may come, When I have shuffled off this wretched robe Must give me pause: Still there’s the ancient dress That marks gentility in well-worn silk,―― Yet who would bear the flaunts and scorns of Kate, The Mantua Maker’s grief, Pall Mall’s contumely, The pangs of last year’s shade, the Christmas bills. The insolence of duns, and the spurns That Modistes give to the impecunious, If I myself might a sensation make With a cash purchase? Who would old garments wear And weep and pine under a withered life, But that the dread of what Papa may say, The library’s scold, that always Leaves me sad, puzzles my will; And makes me rather wear the dress I have, Than try on others that I wot of? Thus credit does make cowards of us all; And thus the natural cash transaction Is sicklied o’er by the pale cast of thought; And purchases of great value and amount With this regard are nearly turned awry. Yet this once I must――Parker, now! A cab!
An Advertisement in The Daily News, February 1, 1878
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A DENTAL SOLILOQUY.
To have it out or not? that is the question―― Whether ’tis better for the jaws to suffer The pangs and torments of an aching tooth, Or to take steel against a host of troubles; And, by extracting, end them? To pull――to tug! No more; and by a tug to say we end The tooth-ache, and a thousand natural ills The jaw is heir to; ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished? To pull――to tug! To tug――perchance to break! Ay, there’s the rub For in that wrench what agonies may come, When we have half-dislodged the stubborn foe, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes an aching tooth of so long life. For who would bear the whips and stings of pain, The old wife’s nostrum, dentist’s contumely, The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep’s delay The insolence of pity, and the spurns That patient sickness of the healthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make, For two-and-sixpence? Who would fardels bear To groan and sweat beneath a load of pain? But that the dread of something lodged within The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs No jaw at ease returns!――puzzles the will, And makes it rather bear the ills it has Than fly to others that it knows not of. Thus dentists do make cowards of us all―― And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear; And many a one, whose courage seeks the door, With this regard his footsteps turn away, Scared at the name of dentist. C. A. W. From Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal, April 29, 1837.
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THE GENT’S SOLILOQUY.
To hiss, or not to hiss, that is the question; Whether ’tis nobler in a gent to suffer The ten-act plays of Alexandre Dumas; Or to take arms against a troupe of Frenchmen, And by opposing, smash them? To shout――to row―― No more; and, by a row, to say we end This Monte Christo, which so strangely shocks The blush I’m heir to;――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To shout; to row;―― To row! and go to Quod?――ay, there’s the rub For if that be the case, what fine may come Next day, for kicking up this great turmoil, Must give us pause; there’s the respect That makes these foreigners of so long life. For who would bear the whips and spurs of the Cirque Franconi’s stud within Old Drury’s walls, The jokes of foreign clowns, and all they say, Their insolence in coming, which, in turn, These fresh arrivals do but imitate, When he himself might a quietus make With a mere cat-call? Who would quietly sit, And nothing understand of ten long acts, But that the dread of something after quod―― That well-discovered country, from whose bourn The van so oft removes,――puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear this foreign trash Than walk to Bow-street, ’twixt two New Police! Thus Jardine does make cowards of us all; And thus our stock in trade of resolution Goes oozing out at his most dreaded name; And all our plans and projects, in a moment, From great regard for it are all my eye, And, what’s more――Betty Martin.
The Puppet Show June 24, 1848.
(The production of Mr. Alexandre Dumas’ Drama, Monte Christo by the French Company of the Theâtre Historique, at Drury Lane Theatre, gave rise to most discreditable scenes of disorder, owing to the jealousy then felt of foreign dramatic talent.)
THE HUNTER’S SOLILOQUY.
To hunt, or not to hunt? that is the question―― Whether ’tis prudent in the soul to suffer The pangs of self denial, or to urge With enthusiastic rage and bold defiance The rapid chase;――to hunt――to ride―― No more, and by that ride to say we fly From thought, that canker-worm to gay desires, From cares that feed upon the lamp of life. ’Tis a fruition devoutly to be wished, To hunt――to ride――to ride? perchance to fall; Ay, there’s the rub―― For in the mad pursuit what falls may come, When ev’ry hound each hardy sinew strains, And ev’ry breeze conveys enrapt’ring sounds, Must give us pause!――There’s the respect That gives the fatal blow to promis’d joys, That taints with baleful light each blooming hope, Who would forego this madness of delight; Who without pain could hear a chase describ’d, Or silent sit while others boast their feats, When he himself might mount the neighing steed, And urge the sprightly chase? Beneath a roof Who would wear out the tedious, doleful day, Oppress’d with discontent and dire remorse? But that the dread of fall precipitate, That unknown field, where, destitute of aid, With shiver’d limb he haply may repent His forward zeal and fury uncontrol’d Puzzles the will; and makes us rather pine In humble cell, than seek for distant joys Where pain and death th’ advent’rous hunter wait. But hark―――― The hunter’s notes, on Zephyr’s pinion borne, Assail my ears―――― Already Phœbus gilds the mountain Great Phœbus, patron of the hunting crew, Propitious smile, and vanish ev’ry doubt!
The Mirror. February 8, 1823.
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THE DEBTOR’S SOLILOQUY. After Stocktaking.
To pay, or not to pay, that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the man to suffer The duns and threats of overpressing tradesmen, Or to take arms against a sea of bills, And, by compounding, end them? To fail, to owe No more,――and by that act to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand front-door knocks A debtor’s used to:――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To fail――to smash:―― To smash, perchance to starve; ay, there’s the rub; For in that bankruptcy what strain may come, When we have shuffled off this coil of bills, Must give us pause:――There’s the respect That makes calamity of commercial life. For who would bear the slights of those he patronises The oppressor’s writ, the bailiff’s forced possession, The pangs of declined credit, the lawyer’s threats, The insolence of agents, and the frequent calls Impatient tradesmen make to get their money When he himself might his quietus make With a bare petition? Who would fardels bear To groan and sweat under this weary strife, But that the dread of something after failure,―― The discontented lawyer from whose clutch No debtor ’ere escapes,――puzzles the will; And makes us rather hear the bills we have Than fly to others that we know not of! Thus insolvency makes cowards of us all, And thus the anxious heart of him who struggles on Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought; And shaky merchants of great name and business With this regard some sly “arrangements” make And lose the name of debtor. Q. E. D.
This amusing Parody appeared in The Walsall Observer. January, 1881. It was written by Mr. F. J. Overton, of Walsall.
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OUGHT A GENTLEMAN TO GO OUTSIDE AN OMNIBUS TO OBLIGE A LADY?
To be or not to be polite, that is the question; Whether ’tis better in a ’bus to suffer The torments which are ever consequent Upon the proclamation “Full inside”; To have your knees impress’d by tons Of your stout neighbour’s well-drenched bombazine, And be made a stand for her fast-dripping gamp; Or, p’haps, a seat which, in your genteel grace, You charitably give her half-drown’d brat, And patiently receive the running stream Which proves the virtues of her waterproof; To be half-chok’d, half-suffocated By the steam fumes, condensing as they rise, From sodden serge and water’d silk or crape; To bear with patience sundry visits from The gouty foot of your aged vis-à-vis, Envious of your one only favourite corn; To feel just like a herring in a tub, Or sardine, pickled and encased in oil―― To be, in short, a martyr to yourself, Or victim of your ungentility? Or be gallant, and, for a lady’s sake, Deny yourself the pleasure of these woes; Gracefully――that is, if gracefully you can, Spite of aforesaid hindrances――yield Your inside station to a fairer fare, Removing to the knifeboard, there to be The prey of downright, but more wholesome ills―― The heav’n-sent rain――not tepid drops Reaching you second-hand, as those inside; And as you journey on towards your home, Find consolation in the honest thought That you have done the very thing you ought?―― That is the question, and I solve it thus: A man should always ride outside a ’bus. C. B. Gossip, May 16, 1885.
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TO PRINT, OR NOT TO PRINT.
To print, or not to print――that is the question. Whether ’tis better in a trunk to bury The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy, Or send a well-wrote copy to the press, And, by disclosing, end them? To print, to doubt No more, and by one act to say we end The headache, and a thousand natural shocks, Of scribbling frenzy――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To print――to beam From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well-bound; To sleep perchance with Quarles. Ay, there’s the rub For to what class a writer may be doomed, When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff, Must give us pause. There’s the respect that makes Th’ unwilling poet keep his piece nine years. For who would bear the impatient thirst of fame, The price of conscious merit, and ’bove all, The tedious importunity of friends, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare inkhorn? who would fardels bear? To groan and sweat under a load of wit? But that the tread of steep Parnassus’ hill That undiscover’d country, with whose bays Few travellers return, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear to live unknown Than run the hazard to be known and damn’d. Thus Critics do make cowards of us all; And thus the healthful face of many a poem Is sicklied o’er with a pale manuscript; And enterprisers of great fire and spirit, With this regard, from Murray turn away, And lose the name of authors. REVEREND RICHARD JAGO. (Before 1780.) ――――:o:――――
To rat, or not to rat, that is the question;―― Whether ’tis safer for a Whig to suffer The sting of conscious inconsistency; Or to take arms against this nest of madmen, And by opposing, leave them. To rat――to vote―― No more; and by a vote to say we’ve done With Ireland, and the thousand natural ills Of Dis-establishment. A consummation Devoutly to be wished. To rat――to vote;―― To lose perchance our seat!――Ay, there’s the rub! For from that adverse vote what griefs may come, When we have shuffled off this party mesh, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of Whiggery; For who would bear the whips and votes of Glyn, Th’ oppressive Bright, proud Gladstone’s contumely, The sneer from Tory bench, each night’s delay, The seeking after office, and the groans The patient member meets with when he speaks, When he himself might their quietus make In the wrong lobby? Who would measures hear For which, he voting, acts an endless lie; But that the dread of something afterwards, The represented “county” from whose poll No renegade returns,――puzzles the will! And makes us rather bear the ills we have, Than fly to others that will plague us more! Thus interest doth make puppets of us all; And thus the native hue of patriotism Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of “self;” And gentlemen of sturdy truth and honour With this regard their conscience belie, And lose all sense of freedom.
Once a Week, May 23, 1868.
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THE SHAVER’S SOLILOQUY.
To shave, or not to shave; the question is, Whether ’tis better, on the human phiz, To let accumulation of our hair Cover the chins and lips which now are bare; Or to continue still to scrape away The hirsute ornament from day to day.―― To lather――shave――perchance to gash the face? Ay, there’s the rub; for, in this latter case, What mis’ry’s ours! ’Tis this must give us pause, And makes us rather let alone our jaws, Than by continuance in the bar’brous use, Cut, scratch, and lacerate them like the deuce, For if it actually were the case, That Nature never meant the human face To be so teased and tortured as it is―― If so, I say, why then what business Have mortals virtually to cry out That Nature knew not what she was about? Why since the beard was evidently meant To grow, should men be seemingly intent On trying to prove Nature was a dunce, And did not know her trade? Why not at once Pluck out the eyebrows, and extract the nails, And shave the heads of females, and of males? Strange ’tis that men should worship fashion, so As to be willing thus to undergo The pains of shaving, rather than permit Moustache and beard to grow as they think fit. How singular that men should still delight In torturing their faces, when they might Themselves their comfort, ease, and health obtain By vowing they will never shave again? But ’tis the dread of ridicule and scorn Makes the foul fashion easy to be borne. Thus custom of us all doth cowards make, And for this savage custom, then, we take The trouble and the pains our chins to mow, Because it is the fashion to do so. But thus our chins will soon no more, I hope, Be lather’d o’er with the pale suds of soap. Soon shall moustache and beard once more on all Our chins wag merrily, in street and hall!
Diogenes, March, 1854.
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A SOLILOQUY WHILST SHAVING.
To shave, or not to shave? that is the question, Whether ’tis comfortable most to cover One’s face all over with outrageous lather, Or by outrageous hair, s(h)ave so much trouble, And thus soap――pose we end it! To shave――to swear What for? when by moustache and beard we end The nuisance thus encouraging the locks That flesh is hair to――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To shave? To swear? To swear! perchance, an oath――ay, there’s the rub; For as we shave, perhaps the razor slips, And as we _barber_ously hack our chin, Must we then pause; in every respect There is calamity in such a shave. Oh, who would bear shivering in the cold Ten minutes long to be in misery? The pangs of getting up, with much delay, The razor wanting strapping, and the time The patient shaver usually takes, When he himself might get on very well Without a razor?――or who would be shaved, Tweak’d by the nose as pigs for singeing are, To groan and sweat under the barber’s hand, And as the dread of something happening―― A pleasant slice, perhaps, taken off one’s nose; Of course entirely against one’s will. It makes us rather wear the honest beard, Than fly to barbers whom we know not of. Thus custom makes Gorillas of us all; Although we falter in our resolution, As lathered over with best Windsor soap, Expecting a severe cut every moment, We contemplate our beard with jaundiced eye, And so prepare for action―― Soft I vow――’tis done――Oh, feel here! T. F. DILLON CROKER. Vagrant Leaves, Number 2.――November 1, 1866.
“My occupation is no more!” exclaimed Sylvester Daggerwood, on assuming the vile occupation of waiter at a country inn where, on contemplating the preparations for a parish feast he made the following complaint:
To starve, or not to starve? that is the question:―― Whether, Sylvester, thou should’st calmly bear The yearns and gripings of internal wants, Or take up arms against the parish treat, And, wille nille, end it?――To eat;――to glut Thy fill;――and, by this feast, to say thou end’st Those cravings and the thousand rav’nous wants That flesh is heir to――’tis an occupation Devoutly to be wish’d. To eat;――to stuff;―― To gorge, perchance be sick! aye, there’s the rub; For in that yearning state what pangs may come, In easing me of superfluities, Must make me pause:――’tis this alone That bids me curb my longing appetite; Else should I tamely bear fell hunger’s cries, My stomach’s wrongs, my bowels’ piercing shrieks, My greedy eye’s desire, the cook’s delay, Who, insolent in office, jade-like taunts My rav’nous appetite, that sneaking waits, When quickly force might satisfy desire With knife and bodkin? What all endure, And grumbling sweat before the blazing fire, But that the dread of sickness afterwards, That painful operation, from whose course No man is free, affrights my will, And makes me rather bear those gripes I feel, Than fly to such as might await the deed? Thus sickness does make cowards of us all; And thus fell resolution, arm’d by want, Sinks, pale and coward-like, the slave of thought; And mighty feats perform’d with knife and fork Are left untried; so is my craving turn’d! I lose the power of eating.――――
From Rhapsodies by W. H. IRELAND, London; Longman and Rees, 1803.
[Concerning this William Henry Ireland, and his Shakespearian forgeries, it will be necessary to speak at length in some future number of Parodies, for the present it will suffice to mention that he composed a Tragedy, entitled Vortigern, which he passed off as a newly discovered work by Shakespeare. The forgery deceived some of the most learned and able critics of the day, and at length, Richard Brinsley Sheridan was prevailed upon to produce it at Drury Lane Theatre. It was only played once, on the second of April, 1796, when Mr. Kemble appeared as Vortigern, Miss Miller as Rowena, and the beautiful Mrs. Jordan as Flavia. The public, more accurate in their judgment than the critics, good humouredly laughed the piece down, and when Kemble had to speak the line:――
“And when this solemn mockery is o’er,”
the audience received it in such a manner that the fate of the tragedy was sealed. Ireland’s ingenious devices and plausible manner had convinced several learned and prominent men of the authenticity of the Shakesperian M.S.S. and, as might have been expected, when the imposition was discovered, there were many bitter caricatures and satires published at his expense. One of these, dated December 1797, is a portrait of Ireland, grasping a volume of Shakespeare, with a motto, taken from the Maid of the Mill:――
“Such cursed assurance Is past all endurance.”
The following parody of Dryden’s celebrated Epigram on Milton, is appended; the lines were probably written by the Reverend William Mason:――
“Four forgers, born in one prolific age, Much critical acumen did engage: The first[30] was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d, Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d. The next had all the cunning of a Scot[31] The third, invention, genius――nay, what not[32] Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”
It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.
After Vortigern and Rowena had been once played, and the audience had testified in the most unmistakable manner their disbelief in its authenticity, and contempt for its merits, Ireland yet had the audacity to urge Sheridan and Kemble to have a second trial; Sheridan, however, dismissed him with an emphatic negative. After Ireland had left the room, Kemble said, “Well, Sir, you cannot doubt that the play is a forgery.” “Damn the fellow,” replied Sheridan, “I believe his face is a forgery, he is the most specious man I ever saw!”]
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OLD TUNBELLY’S SOLILOQUY.
To stick to Hoy, or not――that is the question, Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer, The pangs and aches of golden hopes deferred; Or, trampling on my ancient principles, Go to the Star at once, To go――to tip the blunt, And thus enable Jack to keep in flesh; Nay, more, to have my way, and be revenged, On all those scoundrel writers who have been Maligning me; O what a glorious day! What would I give to see it? To go――to win―― To win――perchance to lose――aye, that’s the job―― For if we win, who cares for all they say, Of rats, and bribes, and Elephants wild and tame, And Kingsland “little affairs,” but if we lose―― And lose we may, in spite of all my weight―― What I shall do, after the poll is o’er Should be considered now, and ere I go Must give me pause. There’s Hoy, I fear he’ll cut The town, if he cut out; and then poor I, Old, friendless, and the mock of all the mob, That once stuck fast to him, but ratting now By hundreds and by thousands from his side, Will hoot and hiss me in the streets and lanes; Unable to enjoy my usual walks, Whereby I have my health and my body huge, By wholesome perspiration keep well down, Within the decent weight of twenty stone―― Shall get no sleep, and then full soon shall sink, Poor, unlamented, to a nameless grave―― Where, stead of epitaph in prose and verse. Briefly dilating on my virtuous deeds, Argus and Obadiah, and the crew, Penleazers vile, will cry to all around,
“_Here lies a man, who once upheld Reform; Allured by pelf, he turned, and straight was hither borne._
But hence, ideas like these――avaunt! delusions vain, Far be from me the thought of coward flight, Or unmatured resolve.
* * * * *
This is the road to rhino and revenge, And on this road, in spite of former vows, In spite of all my ancient predilections, In spite of Argus, hand bills, nicknames, jeers, In spite of what the minister may think In spite of fate, or e’en the devil himself, This road I’ll travel. (Exit waddling).
The Argus. April 16, 1831.
This little Journal was published in Southampton during the stirring times just previous to the election of the Parliament which settled the first great Reform Bill. The Argus strongly advocated the cause of Reform, supporting the candidatures of Messrs. ATHERLEY & PENLEAZE, in opposition to Messrs. DOTTIN & HOY. At the election ATHERLEY polled 732 votes; PENLEAZE 663, whereas HOY had only 391 votes, and with the general victory of the Reform question the necessity for such a political journal as The Argus was at an end. It contains many parodies satirising the prominent men of Southampton, of whom TUNBELLY was one.
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THE JOURNEYMAN TAILOR’S SOLILOQUY.
To stitch or not to stitch――that is the question! Whether ’tis better on the board to suffer The stings of needles for capricious masters, Or throw away one’s thimble, shears, and bodkin, And so by tramping end them. To stitch and sweat, No more, and by a tramp to say we end The head-ache, and the thousand cramps and pains We cross-legg’d folks are heirs to; ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To walk, to take a trip, To rove at large――perchance to beg one’s bread! Aye, there’s the rub―――― For by this strolling trade what want may come, When we have shifted from a constant place, Must give us pain. There’s the respect that keeps One willing prisoner to the shop board still, For who would bear the frowns of angry masters, The jokes and jeers of scavengers and soot-boys With all the insult of unmanly title, The honest tailor is obliged to take, When he himself might his quietus make With trav’ling. Who would slavery bear, And groan and sweat upon a dreary shop board, But that the thought of something worse than stitching That sting of poverty, whose unwelcome gripe, Few travellers escape――puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear the ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of. And thus necessity keeps us tailors still: And thus the native hue of resolution is kept up By each industrious thought; and tailors too Of no small pith and moment, by this regard From tramping turn away, and lose the name Of vagrants.
J――M――――N. The Mirror.
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THE CABMAN’S SOLILOQUY.
To strike, or not to strike, that is the question:―― Whether ’tis nobler on the box to suffer The persecutions of outrageous bobbies, Or to take arms against the rising public, And serve them out by striking. That is, to ply No more. To make them walk who fain would ride The ’Busses scorning,――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished,――to stop the ills Cabmanic flesh is heir to; there’s the rub, For in such strike of cabs perchance we starve; Yet who would bear the inflicted wrongs of [33]MAYNE, Sixpenny fares, and lamps compulsory, Woes of backed licenses, police court fines, The beak’s severity, and the many spurns That patient cabmen from their riders take Without a murmur: when each man can strike, And leave town cabless; each railway station Without a vehicle of any sort To greet the luggage-laden traveller, Until our native hue of resolution Shall sickly o’er with the pale cast of thought The members anxious to get home at night, And force them to repeal the hateful Act.
Judy, December 11, 1867.
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THE SOLILOQUY OF A WOULD-BE BLOOMER.
Trousers, or no trousers――that is the question; Whether ’tis better on the legs to suffer The dirt and scrapings of bespatter’d crossings, Or to take arms against this present Fashion, And with new dresses, change it? To fix――to change―― No more; and by this change to say we stop Mud splashings, and the thousand natural woes The legs are heir to.――’tis an emendation Devoutly to be wished. To fix――to change―― To change! perchance the gown;――ay, there’s the rub; For in that change of dress what jeers may come When we have shuffled off this flounced coil,―― Must we then pause? Where’s the respect That makes the petticoats for so long rife? For who would bear the great constraint of gowns, The dresses long, the small feet hid thereby, The pangs of tight-laced stays, the waist’s display, The dirtiness of stockings, and the turns The patient follower of fashion takes, When she herself might her own comfort make With pairs of trousers? Who would flounces wear To brush and sweep the mud,――a weary wife,―― But that the dread of some one’s sneering breath,―― That unforgiven sarcasm from whose spurn The maiden e’er recoils,――puzzles the will; And makes us rather wear the dress we have Than change for others that we know not of? Thus custom does make cowards of us all; And thus the very name of resolution Is passed o’er by the frail cant of the law, And novel dresses of great use and beauty Meet no regard: the trousers they despise, And spurn the name of BLOOMER!
The Month, by ALBERT SMITH and JOHN LEECH, November, 1851.
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HAMLET ON VACCINATION.
To vaccinate or not, that is the question, Whether ’tis better for a man to suffer The painful pangs and lasting marks of smallpox Or to bare arms before the surgeon’s lancet, And, by being vaccinated, end them. Yes, To feel the tiny point, and say we end The chance of many a thousand awful scars That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.――Ah! soft you now, The Vaccinator! Sir, upon thy rounds Be my poor arms remembered!
Punch, May 28, 1881.
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CLEAN LINEN! Or, The Housewife’s Soliloquy.
To wash, or not wash?――that is the question! Whether ’tis nobler on th’ whole person to suffer The grime and lankness of the long-worn garment, Or to take soap against a siege of stain-spots, And by stout scrubbing, end them. To wash――to scrub No more; and by that toil to say, we end The mud-splash, and the thousand various soils Which linen catches――’tis a consummation With both fists to be strove for! To wash, to dry, To dry, perchance in frost――ay there’s the rub! For in that chance of frost what coals must burn, When we have soused, and wet a whole month’s cloaths, Must make us pause!――There’s the respect That makes a muslin gown be worn so long:―― For who would bear the dingy-looking tail, The crumpled ruff, the chair-press’d, crease-mark’d shawl; Dance-dusted turban, or, trod Turkish robe; The oft’ turned petticoat, kerchief and hose Which tho’ well-coak’d within the shoe――will peep; When she herself might mend appearances By a soap-lather:――Who’d white bonnets wear That took the goblin of a foul-cloathes bag? But that the dread of price per chaldron charg’d, (That bill by coal man drawn, from whose sum total Abatement ne’er was made) puzzles the choice, And makes us rather bear be-grim’d nankeens Than fly too rashly to the measur’d purse! ――――Thus saving does make slovens of us all, And thus the native hue of milk-white Irish Is sicklied o’er by three days perspiration, And smug-tied neckcloths of great length and wideness In this regard are turned all ways awry, And lose the name of cravat!
From Fugitive Verse and Prose, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester, 1803.
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SOME PARODIES ON THE MARRIAGE QUESTION.
THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY. In Imitation of a celebrated Speech.
To wed, or not to wed――That is the question: Whether ’tis happier in the mind to stifle The heats and tumults of outrageous passion, Or with some prudent fair in solemn contract Of matrimony join――to have――to hold―― No more――and by that have to say we end The heartache, and a thousand love-sick pangs Of celibacy――’twere a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d――in nuptial band To join till death dissolves.――Ay, there’s the rub; For in that space what dull remorse may come, When we have ta’en our solemn leave of liberty, Must give us pause――There’s the respect That slacks our speed in suing for a change. Else――who would bear the scorns and sneers which bachelors When aged feel, the pains and flatt’ring fevers Which each new face must give to roving fancy, When he might rid himself at once of all By a bare Yes. Who would with patience bear To fret and linger out a single life, But that the dread of something yet untry’d, Some hazard in a state from whose strict bond Death only can release, puzzles the will, And makes us rather chuse those ills we have, Than fly to others which we fancy greater? This last reflection makes us slow and wary, Filling the dubious mind with dreadful thoughts Of curtain lectures, jealousies, and cares Extravagantly great, entail’d on wedlock, Which to avoid the lover checks his passion, And, miserable, dies a bachelor.
T. C――――BRE. The New Lady’s Magazine_, March, 1786.
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To woo, or not to woo――that is the question: Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer The screws and pinches of a straiten’d fortune, Or to take arms against some rich widow’s suitors, And, by opposing, beat them. To woo――to wed: No more:――and by a wedding to say we silence The creditor, and thousand barking pests That snap at poor men,――though the consummation Were little to be wished. To woo;――to wed:―― To wed――perchance be henpeck’d!――There’s the rub! For in that unison what jars may come When we have shuffled on the fatal yoke, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes our celibacy last so long; For who would bear the plagues of poverty, The fair’s neglect, the coxcomb’s contumely, The dearth of dinner, and the mournful waste That active Time in galligaskins wears, When he himself might his quietus make With a gold ring? Who’d live a subaltern, To drill and dress under a martinet? But that the dread of something after marriage, That knot indissoluble, from whose noose No sufferer can be freed, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear our own mishaps, Than fly to others that a wife would bring! For women do make noodles of us all; And thus, the bare design of a flirtation Is strangled by the terror of a match, And many a pleasant and free hearted youth, With this regard his courtship turns awry, And shuns the name of husband.
From “Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by several of our MOST CELEBRATED POETS, but not published in any former edition of their works.” London, John Miller, 1814.
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To wed, or not to wed? That is the question. Whether it is advisable to bear The dull privations of a single life, Or marry, and in wedlock seek relief From many woes? To desperately woo Some charming woman decked with seraph lips And eyes that speak an ocean-stream of love? To marry her? It is a consummation Devoutly to be wished; but where’s the chance? To wed――to set up an establishment And have “a lot of bairns?” Ay, there’s the rub; For it may be I shall not have the means To do my duty to them all, and leave My mortal reckoning; bequeathing merit. Hence reasoning makes me pause, and show respect That dates celibacy a lengthy term; For how could I, chief party to a deed In what is promised, faithfully and true, A constant, generous, and a manly aid, Fulfil my trust, unless I could afford it? I’d like to wed, for who would single be, Or snore in solitude the livelong night, But that the fear of curtain lectures, and A yearly levy of “incumbrances” (As heathen, churlish men their offspring call), Perplexes me, and makes me rather bear The ills I have than fly to those unknown.
ANONYMOUS. From W. A. Clouston’s Literary Curiosities and Eccentricities.
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Marry, or not to marry? that is the question―― Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The sullen silence of these cob-webbed rooms Or seek in festive halls some cheerful dame, And, by uniting, end it?――to live alone No more: and by marrying say we end The heartache, and the thousand make-shifts Bach’lors are heirs to; ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To marry to live In peace! Perchance in war; ay, there’s the rub; For in the marriage state what ills may come, When we have shuffled off our liberty, Must give us pause――there’s the respect, That makes us dread the bonds of wedlock, For who could bear the noise of scolding wives, The fits of spleen, th’ extravagance of dress, The thirst for plays, for concerts and for balls, The insolence of the servants, and the spurns That patient husbands from their consorts take When he himself might his quietus gain By living single. Who would wish to hear The jeering name of bachelor, But that the dread of something after marriage (Ah, that vast expenditure of income, The tongue call scarcely tell) puzzles the will, And makes us rather choose the single life, Then go to jail for debts we know not of―― Economy thus makes bachelors of us still; And thus our melancholy resolution Is still increased upon more serious thought.
From Geo. Wentworth’s Poetical Note Book, London, 1824.
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To wed, or not to wed――that is the question―― Whether ’tis wiser in a man to banish The tempting visions of domestic comfort, Or to lead some damsel of our times to the altar, And, by marriage, end them? To wed, to doubt No more, and by that act to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand well-planned tricks Of enterprising mothers! ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To wed――to enrich The tradesmen, and to feed bad servants! To wed, perchance, a spend thrift! ay, there’s the rub; For to what sort of wife we may be mated When we have shuffled off our bachelorhood, Must give us pause.――――There’s the respect That makes celibacy of so much practice; For who would bear the impatient thirst for bliss, The yearnings for some gentle confidant The amatory frenzies of one’s loneliness, The loss of buttons, and of large joints of meat, When he himself, might his quietus make With a bare Wedding ring? Who would lodgings bear, To groan and sweat under extortionate landladies, But that the dread of helpless and expensive wives―― Those prodigies of modern training――puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than hazard being thus ta’en in and done for. Thus women do make cowards of us all: And thus the hopeful heart of many a bachelor, Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprisers of good will and spirit, With this regard from marriage turn away, And lose the name of Husband.
Echoes from the Clubs, April 8, 1868.
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THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITIONS.
On September 26, 1880, the following Prize Parody appeared in the Weekly Dispatch:――
To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis better in this life to suffer The petty trials of unmarried life Or add one more unto a list of troubles, And thus by marriage end them? To wed, to sleep No more; or, if to sleep, to say we end The yearnings and the sentimental fudge Young flesh is heir to――’tis a consummation Too blessed to be true. To love, to wed―― What then? Perchance repent; ay, there’s the rub. For in the meekest maid what changes come When we have wriggled on the golden coil, Must give us pause. There’s reason good That makes so many choose a single life―― For who could bear to give up his quiet pipe, The close society of bosom friends, The interchange of bright congenial thoughts, Which sparkle like the glasses on the board, For squalling children and a shrewish wife, While he can cook a herring, or a steak, And ply a bodkin. None would ever dare To grunt and growl at lovely maidenhood! But there’s a something after marriage vows―― The trap where foxes lose their tails, and then Advise their fellows that its much the best―― Which makes us rather bear the ills we have Than marry troops of others with a wife―― For woman breeched makes cowards of us all. And, somehow, all our boasted resolution Gets sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear; And enterprises, which we might have held In great regard, must then be put aside, Because, forsooth, “I’m married!”
WILLIAM H. EDMUNDS.
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OPHELIA (aside) Perhaps he will! Perhaps he won’t! Who knows? (pensively) How hard it is to make the men propose!
(Sighs and sits down away from Hamlet.)
HAMLET―― To pop, or not to pop the fatal question. Can any husband give me a suggestion? Whether ’tis nobler to endure the woes Of stockings holey at the heels and toes, Of lonely evenings, solitary mutton, And ragged shirt-fronts innocent of button, Or to take arms against the ills of life, Swallow the necessary pill――a wife, Give up tobacco, latch-keys and late hours, And take an interest in cows and flowers, Adopt a country life, and, if you can, Become a nice domestic married man. The prospect’s tempting. Shall I? Yes, here goes. Ophelia, I’ve determined to propose.
From Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks; by the Author of “The Light Green.” W. METCALFE & SON, Trinity Street, Cambridge, 1882.
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THE BARD’S SOLILOQUY
To write――or not to write――that is the question―― Whether ’twere nobler in the mind to stifle The hungry cravings of an empty stomach, To sleep on bed of straw, in garret high, As is Parnass, or in the dark abyss Of cellar, low as Tartarus――To be The game of sporting critics――Or to die―― To sink in vile obscurity, and rot Among the senseless rabble――Aye! to drop Unknown, and unlamented!――Hateful thought! Detestable oblivion! To write――to live!――――immortal as great Jove! To be a second Shakespeare, and inroll’d Among the list of Poets, and perchance Some monarch’s fav’rite, counsellor, and friend, In more retired hours――Or the fond theme Of after ages――Soul inspiring thought! Ambition!――Witchcraft!――Sorcery divine! To write――perchance to cringe――aye, there’s the rub! For who could brook to do an action mean, Unworthy man, and basely stoop to praise Some letter’d bookworm, or pedantic fool; To sell his muse for hire, and thus belie The dictates of his conscience――Be a sycophant, And flatter titled scoundrels?――There’s the respect―― Must give us pause, and make the bard forbear: This infant genius checks, but that the hope Of living after death in mem’ry’s praise Hurries him on――As erst the hot-brain’d, Yclep’d Phaeton, who, of old, they say, Deaf to advice, by hot ambition fir’d, Mounted the flaming chariot of his sire With fatal eagerness――So he, nor mov’d By kind intreaties, nor the sage advice Of prudent friends regarding; but spurr’d on By evil genius, baneful love of fame, The dangerous height of Helicon assails: Or with mad fury mounts the nettled steed Call’d Pegasus――Anon, with giddy brain, And aspect woful, the tremendous depth Of space immensurable while he views, His tott’ring limbs their wonted duty fail; Or while, disdainful of his rider’s strength, The snorting courser cuts the distanc’d winds With wing’d velocity――――Too late, alas! His rashness he repents, and headlong hurl’d Through ether’s all-unfathomable void―― (Dreadful to think)――he falls――to rise no more!
H. R. E. Chancery-Lane. The New Lady’s Magazine, November, 1786.
DAME TILLER discovered washing; she takes out of her tub a veil, and a pair of small socks, which she hangs on the line, sighs, and regards them sorrowfully._
DAME. Tubby or not tubby――there’s the rub, Whether I shall get anything to scrub, Or, overcome by all my numerous troubles, Dive headlong down into that sea of bubbles; As to my bus’ness it is something shockin’, Of stockings I’ve got but that small stock in. People won’t send their things, complaining (bosh) That, like King John, they’d lost them in the Wash. I used to do for schools, and so it follers I used to have a lot of scholars’ collars; Now I have none, no collars smooth, nor ruffs, I’ve got to make the best of fortune’s cuffs. To emigrate the best thing now would be―― Yes! Washington would be the place for me.
From “Poll and Partner Joe”; a Nautical Burlesque by F. C. Burnand. First produced at St. James’s Theatre, May 6th, 1871.
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THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY.
To wed, or not to wed? That is the question Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The pangs and arrows of outrageous love Or to take arms against the powerful flame And by opposing quench it. To wed――to marry―― And by a marriage say we end The heartache and the thousand painful shocks Love makes us heir to――’tis a consummation. Devoutly to be wished! to wed――to marry Perchance a scold! aye, there’s the rub For in that wedded life what ills may come When we have shuffled off our single state Must give us serious pause. There’s the respect That makes us Bachelors a numerous race. For who would bear the dull unsocial hours Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile To sit like hermit at a lonely board In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes With which the Bachelor is daily teased When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs By wedding some fair maid? O who would live Yawning and staring sadly in the fire Till celibacy becomes a weary life But that the dread of something after wedlock (That undiscovered state from whose strong chains No captive can get free) puzzles the will And makes us rather choose those ills we have Than fly to others which a wife may bring. Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all And thus our natural taste for matrimony Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought And love adventures of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of Wedlock.
[Copied from an Album――Author unknown.]
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CREMATION. (By a Burning admirer of Sir Henry Thompson.)
To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler for our frames to suffer The shows and follies of outrageous custom, Or to take fire――against a sea of zealots―― And by consuming end them? To Urn――to keep―― No more: and while we keep, to say we end Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills That flesh is heir to――’tis a consume-ation Devoutly to be wished! To burn――to keep―― To keep! Perchance to lose――aye, there’s the rub: For in the course of things what duns may come, Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes inter-i-ment of so long use. For who would have the pall and plumes of hire, The tradesman’s prize――a proud man’s obsequies, The chaffering for graves, the legal fee, The cemetery beadle and the rest, When he himself might his few ashes make With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear, And lie beneath a lying epitaph, But that the dread of simmering after death―― That uncongenial furnace from whose burn No incremate returns――weakens the will, And makes us rather bear the graves we have Than fly to ovens that we know not of? This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all. And thus the wisdom of incineration Is thick-laid o’er with the pale ghost of nought, And incremators of great pith and courage With this regard their faces turn awry, And shudder at cremation.
WILLIAM SAWYER.
In April, 1884, there was a discussion in the House of Commons on a Bill, brought in by Dr. Cameron, for regulating Cremation.
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There are numbers of other Parodies of this Soliloquy scattered about. William Hone, when on his trial for publishing a Parody entitled “The Political Litany,” mentioned one which had appeared in the Morning Herald in 1808, commencing thus:――
“To stand, or not to stand――that is the question Whether ’tis nobler for us to lose th’ Election, And all the honours that attend upon it, Or to demand a poll, and risk th’ expense.”
Unfortunately the file of the above named journal in the British Museum Library is incomplete, so that the remainder of the parody cannot here be given.
One of the best burlesques of Shakespeare ever written was the “Hamlet Travestie, in three Acts, with annotations after the manner of Dr. Johnson and George Steevens, Esq., and other Commentators,” 1810. This was written by John Poole, the author of Paul Pry; the notes at the end are amusing burlesques of the word-splitting, and quibbling over trifles, to be found in the writings of many authors who have done their best to obscure some of the clearest, and noblest utterances of Shakespeare.
In this burlesque first appeared the well-known lines, (spoken by Ophelia in the Mad Scene,)
Three children sliding on the ice, All on a summer’s day; The ice it broke――they all fell in―― The rest they ran away.
Now had these children staid at home, And slid upon dry ground; They broken necks had had, perchance, But never had been drown’d.
However the whole burlesque is so good that it will be republished complete in this collection; for the present it will be sufficient to quote the parody of the Soliloquy, which is in rhyme:――
Song, HAMLET.――Tune, “Here we go up, up, up.”
When a man becomes tired of his life, The question is, “to be, or not to be?” For before he dare finish the strife, His reflections most serious ought to be. When his troubles too numerous grow, And he knows of no method to mend them, Had he best bear them tamely, or no?―― Or by stoutly opposing them end them? Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
To die is to sleep――nothing more―― And by sleeping to say we end sorrow, And pain, and ten thousand things more―― O, I wish it were my turn to-morrow! But, perchance, in that sleep we may dream, For we dream in our beds very often―― Now, however capricious ’t may seem, I’ve no notion of dreams in a coffin. Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
’Tis the doubt of our ending all snugly, That makes us with life thus dispute, For who’d bear with a wife old and ugly, Or the length of a chancery suit? Or who would bear fardels, and take Kicks, cuffs, frowns, and many an odd thing, When he might his own quietus make, And end all his cares with a bodkin? Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
Truly, death is a fine thing to talk of, But I’ll leave to men of more learning; For my own part, I’ve no wish to walk off, For I find there’s no chance of returning.―― After all ’tis the pleasantest way, To bear up as we can ’gainst our sorrow, And if things go not easy to-day, Let us hope they’ll go better to-morrow.―― Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
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O. P. Q. PHILANDER SMIFF, of The Figaro, (London,) once suggested that the play of Hamlet might be made use of as an advertising medium, with a few minor alterations, as, to take the Soliloquy for example:――
“To sleep, or not to sleep――that is the question, Whether ’tis well to suffer indigestion; Or bear the burden of a dozen ills, Whilst Mr. Cockle offers me his pills. To have a headache, and a tongue that shocks, Whilst they are sold at thirteen-pence a box.”
or, on another evening we might have:――
“To be in debt or not, that is the question, Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to go to Mr. Howse, in Staples Inn, And thus take arms against a sea of trouble.”
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ON BLOWING YOUR BRAINS OUT.
I would put the question to any sensible man, whether he does or does not consider it nobler in the mind to suffer many inconveniences, to which slings and arrows are mere flea-bites by comparison――and especially I might indicate blighted affections, the procrastination of your family solicitor when there is property to be distributed, in which you have a share, losses on the Derby, tightness of the money-market, the impertinence of the fellow who keeps on calling for the Queen’s taxes, and, generally, the spurns that patient merit is obliged to put up with from all kinds of cads and humbugs, and stuck-up little beasts, who give themselves no end of airs, and try to ride rough-shod over everybody who has not had the same luck that they have――than to terminate one’s existence by an act of felo-de-se? Well, you know, the fact is that nobody would be fool enough to go on day after day standing this sort of thing, if it wasn’t for a deuced strong objection to becoming a body, and being sat upon by a dozen tradesmen, some of whom perhaps have been confoundedly rude to one in one’s life, when one has not happened to be able to pay one’s bills the moment one has been called upon in a sudden and peremptory, not to say insolent, manner to do so. There’s the rub! On consideration, most people will rather bear the ills they have than do anything desperate to get rid of them. (I have but this moment met with a passage in a shocking tragedy, by the well-known Shakespeare, that bears a decided family likeness to my philosophic proposition. It will scarcely be expected that I should expunge the foregoing observations, because of their likeness to what was written at a distant period of English literature.)――Punch.
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The libretto to Ambroise Thomas’s opera of Hamlet was by M.M. Barbier and Carré, and their rendering of the Soliloquy shows the difficulty of translating Shakespeare’s blank verse, and metaphysical reasoning, into the orthodox French rhymed measure:――
Être ou ne pas être――O mystère! Mourir――dormir――rêver. Ah! s’il m’était permis pour t’aller retrouver, De briser le lien qui m’attache à la terre! Mais après? Quel est-il ce pays inconnu, D’où pas un voyageur n’est encore revenu?
Être ou ne pas être――O mystère! Mourir-dormir! rêver peut-être!
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SHAKESPEARE AMENDED.
Punch for 30 April, 1881, contained the following――
“Mr. Furnivall is of opinion that the text of Hamlet known to commentators as ‘The First Quarto,’ furnishes a far better and more compact acting play than the modern stage-version. He, and ‘a strong body of amateurs,’ essayed, on the afternoon of Saturday, the 16th April, at St. George’s Hall, to convert the public and the critics to their view of the case――apparently with indifferent success. Mr. FURNIVALL has sent to the Daily News, what he calls ‘a hasty try to set right’ the celebrated soliloquy, ‘To be or not to be,’ in the Quarto No. 1. Mr. FURNIVALL’S version is, of course, a thing of beauty; yet is it hardly so jerky, creaky, spasmodic, incoherent, scansion-proof,――in short, so Utter, as in the interests of the Bard might be desired. Here, therefore, is ‘a hasty try to set right’ Mr. FURNIVALL himself.”
To be or not to be? There you are, don’tcherknow! To die, to sleep! is that all? Forty winks? To sleep, to dream! Ah, that’s about the size of it! For from that forty winks when we awake In the undiscovered cotton-nightcap country From which no passenger ever took a return-ticket―――― Why――ah, yes――humph!――exactly――very much so! Who, but for what the vulgar call “blue funk,” Would bear the rough and tumble of the world, Be down’d on by the rich, plagued by the poor, Married by widows, and by orphans worried? Who’d bear April’s east wind or June’s perpetual rain, The Income-tax, Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL’S questions, Middlesex Magistrates, Mud-Salad Market, Crass commentaries on Shakespearian quartos. And all earth’s ills, from FURNIVALL to toothache, When that himself he might his gruel give In half a jiffy? Who’d put up with it, But for the thought of worse things turning up In the Micawber Limbo――By-and-by? Quite so! ’Tis bother, doubt, hope, fear, cant, gush. The fads of noodles and of nincompoops, Fogging the brain and flooring common sense, Which make us grin and bear the ills we have Rather than, à la FURNIVALL, to make “A hasty try to set ’em right.” Ah, yes, ’Tis noodledom makes cowards of us all!!!
Mr. F. J. Furnivall’s fussy and hasty “tries to set everybody right” about all that relates to Shakespeare are well-known, as is also his objection to any contradiction of his favorite theories.
The “New Shakspere Society” was apparently founded by Mr. F. J. Furnivall for two purposes, firstly, for the glorification of Mr. Furnivall, and secondly, to instruct the British public to spell the name of Shakespeare in a different manner to that commonly adopted, and which was generally used by his contemporaries. If the Society has partially succeeded in its first object, it has totally failed in the second; when the press does condescend to notice its proceedings it is almost invariably styled the New Shakespeare Society, notwithstanding the anger, and the constant protests of Mr. F. J. Furnivall. A pretty controversy was raised on the question of Shakespeare or Shakspere between J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps――who is an authority, and Mr. Furnivall, who is――simply Mr. Furnivall. The latter gentleman’s arguments, expressed in peculiar diction, and still more peculiar orthography, consisted principally of personalities, and Mr. A. C. Swinburne (who happened to disagree with him) was styled a minor poet, and his name translated into pigs-brook (from swine――a pig, and burne――a brook) by the courteous founder of the “New Shakspere Society.”[34]
A very humorous account of the origin of this Society was given in a little pamphlet entitled Furnivallos Furioso! and “The Newest Shakespeare Society;” a Dram-Attic Squib of the Period. (T. Richards, 37, Great Queen Street, London, 1876). The Dramatis Personæ are thus described:――
FURNIVALLOS, surnamed FURIOSO, a great Critic, and Founder of the “Newest Shakespeare Society.”
TUPPERIUS, his Friend and A-bettor, Poet-Critic, and “Proverbial” Philosopher (in his own estimation).
DIXONUS, Reviewer and Author in general. A great admirer of Himself, “with scarce time to steal from Spiritual.”
CARLYLUS, an aged Philosopher of the Anglo-Saxon-and-Water School.
General Members and Ass-ociates of the Society.
The first scene opens thus――
A Library.――FURNIVALLOS, (in his shirt sleeves) sitting at a table.
Furnivallos. A year or two ago, and I Had hardly read a line of Shakespeare’s works―― Or so-call’d works. For why? Have I not found them, in such transient time, A nest of fledgings, and of mixèd rhyme Without much reason――Heav’n save the mark!―― Cribb’d from Boccaccio’s self, or Chaucer’s pages dark? In later days, the hands, Or rather quills, of Jonson, Beaumont too, Have serv’d to make a hash of what this William Shakespeare drew! And I alone of all the wits can show it; For am I not the Critic of our Poet? A thought occurs――it is not always so Since my poor brains are like my means, too low; And when I want them sharp, alas! they’re slow! I’ll found a fresh Society, call’d “New,” And try if I can’t, by much reading hard, Impart “new readings” to th’ “Immortal Bard,” Shifting the false lights from the dazzling true―― Though I for one, find them but very few!―― And thus prove Shakespeare’s after all a myth, And muff!――akin to Jones, or Brown, or Smith.”
Furnivallos having with the aid of Tupperius founded the Society, a meeting is held, at which Furnivallos takes the chair, and makes a speech, in which he asserts――
“Nothing that Shakespeare wrote, came from his head, Which was a Warehouse stored with stolen goods,―― And thus he warbled of the hills and woods In Cuckoo notes.
* * * * *
So now to work, and bring before your Eyes, The fact that Shakespeare’s Plays are only Lies!”
Dixonus (jumping up indignantly, thus speaks)――
This “bosh” your Chairman talks of Shakespeare’s Plays is But hideous Nonsense, and my Anger raises; For though to some extent he may be right, His Tests are wrong, and here I take a sight At his Foot-rule, his Measures, Pauses, Endings. Since Shakespeare, in despite such Tinker’s mendings, Must e’er remain――whatever Dolts may say―― “The Wonder of all Time.” And now, good-day Furnivallos, and your slavish, fawning Crew, With whom again I’ll nothing have to do; Though, ere I go, or quit this “New Society,” Let me advise all, and with strict sobriety, To change its Name, and so coin heaps of guineas, And call it Shakespeare’s “Newest Nest of Ninnies!”
(Great confusion as DIXONUS quits the room.)
TABLEAU.
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When Mr. Wilson Barrett announced that he was about to produce “Hamlet” at the Princess’s Theatre, someone wrote the following, not very profound, criticisms upon the tragedy:――
HAMLET FROM A NEW POINT OF VIEW.
“Seeing an announcement to the effect that ‘Hamlet’ is in preparation at the Princess’s Theatre, set me thinking a bit about the matter; and I give in a free and unstudied manner the fruits of my thoughts. First, I wondered if one out of ten who’d read the bills would know anything really about either the play or the poet? Of the difference between the Hamlet of the first edition, of 1623, and that, say of Knight’s, of 1843.
Open the two at random, and Ophelia says in the first, in Actus Secundus, Scena Secunda:――
‘O, what a noble minde is here o’re-throwne? The Courtiers, Soldiers, Schollers, Eye, tongue, sword.’
In Knight’s the like words occur, only slightly altered in spelling; and in the ordinary acting edition the lines run:――
O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The expectancy and rose of the fair state.’
Let us look at this Prince, almost a fairy one, thirty years of age, too good for the earth, not good enough for Heaven. You know what he says: ‘What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?’
Well, instead of being thin as in the picture, and fancy he is; by his mother’s, the queen’s, words, ‘He’s fat, and scant of breath. Heere’s a napkin, rub thy browes, the Queen carowses to thy fortune, Hamlet.’ Of course it’s very well to wriggle and say oh, that, like the ‘beard,’ was put in to suit Burbage. Even letting this be the case, Shakespeare studied an actor more than the reputation of his first work. Then he is so poetical and wanting in action, so unable to grapple with the wicked things of this world.
Oh! is he. When the king ships him to Britain, he puts the names of his false friends where his own stood, so that the British king has them beheaded and not Hamlet.
Now for the Queen, and Laertes, and the King. Of a sudden, like acted upon by a magician’s wand, they turn bad all at once. It even worries and bothers Hamlet. He can’t understand why his mother should have taken so queer a fancy as to prefer his uncle to his far handsomer father. And Laertes who gives such nice advice to his sister, and for his cad-like conduct receives a very proper rebuke from her, turns from a seemingly-virtuous young gentleman to a mean and despicable assassin. And Ophelia, that beauteous and correct damsel, is easily made to act as a spy upon her lover. And this without one word of caution to him, or the least expression of regret for such, at the mildest, unlady-like, unwoman-like, and altogether unchristian-like conduct.
Other minor faults and absurdities occur, as Hamlet’s remark after he had seen his father’s spirit:――
‘The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.’
This Hamlet may in some shadowy way or other forecast our life here and what the majority of us do in it――nothing. Leave all to the crack of doom and then down we go all together. Our talking as angels, some of us, and acting like fools, most of us, may be all here parabled out.”
As Mr. Wilson Barrett’s revival of Hamlet was a success, it was quite in the order of things that it should be burlesqued, and that he and the members of his company should be caricatured.
“Very Little Hamlet,” by W. Yardley, was produced at the Gaiety Theatre, London, in November, 1884, and Mr. Wilson Barrett’s absurd speech about his early ambition to play Hamlet was made the leading idea in the prologue, the scene representing the exterior of the Princess’s twenty-five years ago, with costumes, &c., archæologically correct. The future proprietor appears as a ragged street boy, and takes his solemn oath, to mysterious music, that he will, one day, play Hamlet in that theatre, while his companions of the gutter, being called upon to swear, exclaim in a hoarse whisper, “D――――n!” and a ghostly actor undertakes to see the scheme carried out. Miss Nelly Farren appeared as the hero, and Miss Phyllis Broughton as Ophelia, with a tow-like wig. The treatment of the play scene was novel and amusing. It was announced that the principal player was ill and could not perform, whereupon King Claudius kindly volunteered to go on and read the part, which he did, until he discovered the meaning of the show.
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Quotations have already been made from The Hamlet Travestie, in three acts, by John Poole (London, Samuel French); Hamlet Travestie, by Mr. F. Talfourd (Oxford, J. Vincent, 1849); and from Hamlet; or not such a Fool as he looks (Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Son, 1882); in addition to these there are many parodies of detached passages from Hamlet.
The following is founded upon the advice given by Polonius to his son, Laertes:――
A PARENT’S COUNSEL.
You are about to go away my son, So take away with you the wise advice of one Who knows the world, boy, and don’t think much of it, “Neither a borrower, nor a lender be,” Of course from choice, the former certainlee. If in a scrape and in the wrong, declare it, Never attempt to justify it; square it. Learn to say “No” to most things――seldom “yes.” If you should see a female in distress, Remember the advice of your sage sire, Call the police and gracefully retire. As the apparel oft proclaims the man, Why, do as many tailors as you can. In short, if you attend to all I tell, You’ll find that you will get on very well. HENRY J. BYRON.
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In the Burlesque of Norma by W. S. Gilbert, entitled The Pretty Druidess, which was produced at the Charing Cross Theatre on the 19th June, 1869, Norma announces her intention to have a Fancy Fair with a view of raising the funds necessary to fight the Romans, and drive them out of the country. This scene contains a parody of Hamlet’s instructions to the players:――
Norma.――Now this sound code of business we’ll arrange, We’ll only take bank notes, and give no change, And won’t sell anything to any buyer That any one could possibly require. Now, priestesses, be good enough to tell The articles that you’ve prepared to sell.
Adalgisa.――(producing cap) a smoking cap――
Norma.――Ah, there, at least, he’s thwarted, For (hush) tobacco isn’t yet imported!
Adalgisa.――Some scented soap.
Norma.――They’re certain to refuse it―― Italians, generally, do not use it!
Adalgisa.――A razor-case, completely stocked.
Norma.――That’s brave! For warriors are not allowed to shave!
Adalgisa.――Braces, embroidered with initial letter.
Norma.――Embroidered braces? Nothing could be better! No Roman wears, in all the martial train, The garments they’re intended to sustain!
Adalgisa.――How shall we bear ourselves to-morrow, pray?
Norma.――Attention, and I’ll point you out the way. With pretty speech accost both old and young, And speak it trippingly upon the tongue. But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh, With clumsy ogling, and uncomely chaff, As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs, I had as lief a huckster sold my wares. Avoid all so-called “beautifying,” dear. Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear, The things that men among themselves will say Of some soi-disant beauty of the day, Whose face, when with cosmetics she has cloyed it, Out-Rachel’s Rachel! Pray you, girls, avoid it! Neither be ye too tame, but, ere you go, Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe, Offer them coyly to the Roman herd, But don’t you “suit the action to the word,” For in the very torrent of your passion, Remember modesty is still in fashion. Oh, there be ladies whom I’ve seen hold stalls―― Ladies of rank, my dears, to whom befalls Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies; So clumsily “made up” with Bloom of Cadiz, Powder, rouge, lip-salve――that I’ve fancied then They were the work of Nature’s journeymen! Let her, whose hair is black with lustre mellow, Not dream of using dye to turn it yellow―― She’ll find it argues (when at length she loses it) A sad ambition in the fool that uses it! Now get you ready. Exit Norma.
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Hamlet’s meditation on the new station of the Midland Railway at St. Pancras:――
See what an incubus sits on our city? Pentonville’s gloom, the front of a huge workhouse A draught like ice to palsy and to pierce; A station like a leaden Limbo-waste, Dim-lighted as a fog-bound Ludgate Hill. A combination and a form indeed, Where every hideousness doth set its seal To give the world assurance of――a Horror! Such is our Terminus!
Punch, December 1882.
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The enterprising proprietors of a celebrated brand of Cigarettes have recently advertised their wares, by a picture representing two smokers, under which appeared the lines:――
Look here upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two smokers; See what a grace is seated on this brow; Luxuriant smile, the type of joy itself! An eye all beams, so pleasant and upturned, Expressing pleasure at the dainty ‘Cig.’ New lighted; mark the heaven-kissing curl: ’Tis fascination to that precious weed; Wherefore men doth feverishly break the seal That gives the world assurance ’tis the GEM. This is one smoker; look you now what follows: Here is the other, like a sickly child Taking its nauseous powder; hath he taste, That he can suck at such a weed, That scatters out its dust? Ha! has he eyes? You cannot say he has; for he would sure Seek out a better brand; the weed is humble, And palls upon the palate; and what palate Would take such stuff as his? Oh, man! for modest cash ‘THE RICHMOND GEM.’ Is sweet and fragrant to the smoker’s mouth; To youth its virtues are as plain―― To smoke is to admire. (Vide Hamlet, Act iii., Scene iv.) St. Stephens’ Saturnalia, December 1884.
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The following Scene is taken from the Hamlet Travestie, a Burlesque in Two Acts, written by Mr. Francis Talfourd, and published by J. Vincent, Oxford, in 1849:――