Act II, Scene I — ――Room in Polonius’ House.
Enter POLONIUS and OPHELIA.
Oph.――O, dear Papa, I’ve been in such a fright! Sewing just now a button on your night――
Pol. [interrupting],――My love, I blush!
Oph.―― (Well you know what I mean) In came Lord Hamlet, anything but clean! Pale as his hose, or Hosier’s Ghost the rather; His stockings were so very dirty, Father His old and seedy neckerchief awry!
Pol.――My daughter, reverence an ancient tie.
Oph.――Unbrac’d his doublet! And O, such a hat!
Pol.――I know it well: the Prince invented that![35]
Oph.――Uncomely, and uncombed about the head, I don’t believe he’d really been in bed; Or, if he had been, why he’d been and slept In that bin where the Palace flour is kept. And then his boots! At those I up and spoke:―― “Is then the Warren stopp’d and has Day broke? Go to the scraper! to the door-mat run! Our Turkey’s getting rather overdone.”
Pol.――And did the scraper clear him from his scrape?
Oph.――By no means――with a look, black as the crape Upon his four and ninepenny, he came And took my hand; and then he press’d the same Which seem’d to do him good――for then he smil’d―― And came it strong, and wouldn’t draw it mild―― In fact he kiss’d me!
Pol.―― O, the man is mad!
Oph.――For kissing me! I can’t see that, my dad!
Pol.――Well, on reflection, ’tis not strange my puss! Being in a hurry, why he took the Bus.
Oph.――A stage box on that bus he might have ta’en. But since to be his debtor I disdain, I would not keep his kiss but gave it back!
Pol.――Bestowed, in short, another kind of smack.
Oph.――His was a blunder-bus, and so my sire, A small salute I from my smack did fire.
Pol.――What did he say?
Oph.―― He never told his love, But look’d it most uncommon!
Pol.―― Like a dove With a sore throat; What then?
Oph.―― O such a sigh!
Pol.――You prick’d him with your needle.
Oph.―― No, not I! O, such a sigh, my Father, as would fill The great Nassau Balloon, or turn a mill.
Pol.――Few men can raise the wind like that, my duckey! And then what next?
Oph.―― The Prince, Pa, cut his lucky.
Pol.――He’s mad, and mad for love of you.
Oph.―― O la! How very nice! can madmen marry, Pa?
Pol.――Doubtless, my daughter. Nay, it has been said None are quite compos when about to wed. I do remember much confusion here [pointing to forehead] When first I called your future mother “dear,” Saw Hymen’s torch-light in her glowing e’e, And caught her eyes a cauterising me, And O, the pride, when first in joyous vein, “Mrs. Polonius!” I said――“Champagne?” To which she answered (every word I treasure) “Aaron Polonius, I will with pleasure.”
POLONIUS sings. Air――“The light of other days.”
But all that sort of thing has faded, The honeymoon’s o’ercast! The horse, you know, is soonest jaded, Who goes at first too fast! The very deuce no long time after She play’d upon my life; And all our mirthsome love and laughter, She turn’d to weary strife.
Pol.――Yes! Love is like some grand new Railway Line Which (the Prospectus tells us) must combine All the advantages to railways known, With much peculiar merit of its own: How easy, then the gradients to our sight, Surveyed thro’ Cupid’s false Theodolite. Trivial the outlay, small the risks appear (For then our telescope’s invert). But near, And huge the profits to our eye, for Hope Lends us her Hydrogen Gas Microscope. Mammas, as managing directors, sit;―― Hear our petition, and the Act permit;―― Our Scrip, the License, then we proudly claim; And Hymen’s Company enrols our name!
Oph.――What then, Papa?
Pol.―― The newly-married pair Pay their first calls――a somewhat triste affair! Awhile the shareholders in peace repose; Dream Love’s young Dream――and all’s couleur de rose Till, on the waking ear (and purse) shall fall, Fearful and frequent the loud railway call!
Oph.――What does that typify?
Pol.―― In married life, The shrill accostals of a scolding wife! Who, like an engine, when she’s on the rail At every obstacle must shriek and wail; Who like an engine (do not sneer my daughter) Cannot get on unless she’s in hot water; Who like an engine――
Oph.―― O, I do beseech This train of thought some Terminus may reach! Rake out your fire! or damp it: shall I ring For liquors?
Pol.―― No! If you would sooth me, sing! Cut out the Lind! for Denmark loves indeed To have a little turn-up with the Swede! Ophelia mia, beat that “Figli-a Del Reggimento!”
Oph.―― I’ve sore throat, Papa!
Pol.――These singer’s ailment all lie in their throats! Stick some “Pulmonic Wafers” on your notes. Now to the Palace, for the king must know This news of Hamlet.
Oph.―― Yet, before you go―― For dear Mama, myself, and sex combin’d, I’ll quote some verses just recall’d to mind:
“When you were that unpleasant thing, A baby, who would smile and sing, ‘The like o’ this hath never bin’”?
Pol.――[abruptly] My Mother!
Oph.――Who thought that nothing would suffice But costly lace on frocks so nice,―― And dare not tell Papa the price?
Pol.――[less abruptly] My Mother!
Oph.――Who told the tale, in twilight gloom? Who read of witch astride her broom, And poor Cock Robin’s early tomb?
Pol.――[somewhat affected] My Mother!
Oph.――Who lov’d you, a mischievous boy? Who spread the jam? who bought the toy? Rejoicing in your every joy?
Pol.――[much affected] My Mother!
Oph.――If aught went wrong who bore the blame? Who wept, when first the “half-year” came? Who sent those hampers, fruit and game?
Pol.――[with epicurean empressement] My Mother!
Oph.――Who when you wrote some doggrel verse, Crimson with pride assured old nurse, ‘That parts of Milton were much worse?’
Pol.――[as conscious of genius] My Mother!
Oph.――Who when the loutish age began, And boyhood’s thoughts on razors ran, Call’d you ‘the gentlemanly man?’
Pol.――[_pulling up his collar, as though the maternity had well spoken_] My Mother!
Oph.――Who when they “pluck’d” you in the schools At “Little Go” ’bout Grammar Rules, Stoutly maintained “the Dons” were fools?
Pol.――(approvingly) My Mother!
Oph.――Who, in your youth’s hot giddy day, Revealed a better brighter way And kindled first-love’s glorious ray?
Pol.――[fondly] Your Mother!
Oph.――Who upon earth, who only, knows Th’ exact location of your clothes? Who marks your linen? darns your hose!
Pol.――[gratefully] Your Mother!
Oph.――Who best your pipe and glass can fill? Whose taper fingers light the spill? Who, if you’re poorly, knows Pa’s pill?
Pol.――[ruefully.] Your Mother!
Oph.――Who, when in sulky mood you fret―― P’raps kick your corn, or lose a bet―― Sings still, “We may be happy yet!”
Pol.――[cheerfully.] Your Mother!
Oph.――What tho’ sometimes o’er married life A cloud may come, a moment strife. Who makes the sunshine?
Pol.――[enthusiastically.] O my wife! Your Mother! Who checks her Daddy in his spleen? Who makes his brow once more serene? And bids him say, “I’ve hasty been?”
Pol.――[embracing.] My Daughter!
Pol.――Woman for ever! Scold they as they will, Marriage! with all thy faults, I love thee still!
Exeunt to Music. Air――“Here’s a health to all good lasses.”
――――:o:――――
In 1839 Messrs. Whittaker & Co., of Ave Maria Lane, London, published a quarto volume entitled “The Barrow Diggers, a Dialogue in imitation of the Grave Diggers in Hamlet.” The work, which was published anonymously, had numerous illustrations of Barrows found in various parts of the country, and of the Antiquities, Arms, Pottery, and human remains found in them. The parody relates entirely to the excavations in the Barrows, carried on by antiquaries in search of curiosities, and the notes explanatory of the parody, form the chief and most interesting portion of the work.
SCENE. A Barrow on a Common. Enter three Barrow Diggers with spades, shovels, &c.
1st B. D.――Is this a Roman, or a British Barrow?
2nd B. D.――I tell thee ’tis a British Barrow, therefore straightways open it; Antiquarius hath set on it, and finds it British Burial.
1st B. D.――How can that be, if Roman Ornaments and arms should here be found?
2nd B. D.――They may be found.
1st B. D.――It must be Roman, it cannot be British Burial. For here lies the point; if Roman arms and ornaments are found in it, it argues a Roman Act; and a Barrow Act hath three Branches, to Act, to Dig, to Shovel; we go to work willingly.
3rd B. D.――Nay; but hear you good friend!
1st B. D.――Give me leave. Here is a Common; good; here is the Barrow; good; if the Barrow contains Roman Arms, or urns, it must be a Roman Barrow; mark you that; but if spear heads made of flints, and British Arms are here, it must be a British Barrow; if nought but an empty cist, tumulus inanis, (or an empty tomb raised by the Romans in memory of a friend whose body could not be found.) He that is not inclined to dig, shortens not our work.
2nd B. D.――But is this Barrow Law?
1st B. D.――Ay, marry is’t Antiquarius’s Barrow Law.
2nd B. D.――Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had been a Roman relic of funeral pomp, it would have been a very different sort of Burial. The Romans raised not Barrows o’er their Dead.
1st B. D.――Why there thou say’st: and the more pity that great folks shall countenance the grandeur of gaudy funerals, more than their poorer neighbours. To my mind they are mighty like representations of Death carrying off his wealthy victims in Triumph. Come my spade, There are no antient gentlemen, but Gardeners Geologists, and Barrow Diggers; they hold up Adam’s profession.
3rd B. D.――Was he a Gentleman?
1st B. D.――He was the first that ever bore Arms, a mattoc shovel, and a spade.
2nd B. D.――Why he had none.
1st B. D.――What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The scripture says, Adam digged. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee; if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself.
3rd B. D.――Go to work.
After having taken an observation with a Compass, and marked out a section, they commence opening the Barrow.
1st B. D.――What is that earthly form all skin and bone, which eludes the Sexton, the Mason, and the Carpenter?
2nd B. D.――The Living Skeleton, for that fragile frame outlives a thousand Harry’s.
1st B. D.――Now where is he?
2nd B. D.――Eating soup maigre!
1st B. D.――Eating soup maigre! Where?
2nd B. D.――Not where fat King’s are eaten: a certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at them. Your worm is your only Emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us; and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat King and your lean skeleton is but variable service; two dishes, but to one table that’s the end.
1st B. D.――Alas! alas! shall I feed worms when I am dead?
2nd B. D.――Ay, and a living skeleton may fish with the worm that hath eat of a King; and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
1st B. D.――What dost thou mean by this?
2nd B. D.――Nothing but to show you how a King may go a progress through the carcase of a living skeleton.
1st B. D.――I like thy wit well in good faith. To’t again; come, what is this Barrow?
2nd B. D.――Cudgel thy brains no more about it; when you are asked this question next say ’tis a British Barrow, a house that will last till doomsday. Go get thee to Shapwicke, and fetch me a stoup of liquor.
1st Bar. Dig. continues Digging and Sings
Britons rais’d an earthy mound, When e’re their Chieftains died, And I am digging under ground, Where delvers have not tried.
Antiquarius and Discipulus enter.
ANT.――Has this fellow no feeling of his business, he sings at Barrow opening?
DIS.――He knows not that he treads on hallow’d Mould!
ANT.――’Tis e’en so, the hand of Antiquaries only hath the Barrow Sense.
1_st Bar. Dig. continues Digging and Sings_;
Clasps, Celts, and Arrowheads, I’ll try To claw within my Clutch, And if a Shield I should espy, I’ll vow there ne’er was such. With Popish Tricks, and Relics rare, The Priests their Flocks do gull In casting out the earth take care, Huzza! I’ve found a skull!
ANT.――That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were a slave’s jaw-bone, or that of the first Murderer! That might be the pate of a Druid which this ass now o’erreaches: one that would gorge his Deities with human blood; might it not?
DIS.――It might.
ANT.――Or of a Warrior, who could say kill and burn Captives to appease the Dead.
DIS.――Ay, Antiquarius! or it might be a Slave’s!
ANT.――Why even so; and now my lady Worm’s chapless and knocked about the mazzard with a Sexton’s shovel. Here’s fine revolution an’ we had our spectacles to see’t, Prodigious to think on’t.
1_st Bar. Dig. continues digging and sings_
A Mattoc, Shovel, and a Spade, Will dig up human bones; To play at Marbles Britons made, Some small round Portland Stones. If Casques we find, or iron arms, Of curious form and make, Why surely they’re Roman charms, Your British creed to shake.
ANT.――Cease prattler cease! Why should they not be the Casques, arms, or Bosses of British Chieftains in Roman service? No golden filagree work nor carved ivory; No amethystine Beads, nor Crystal Balls, no Coins, no Medals, no well-formed urns, nor colour’d stones from Rome will here be found; but Tin, Glass, or Amber Beads, the Tusks of Boars, or unbaked Urns of rudely shape with limpet shells will denote ’tis a British Barrow.
1_st B. D. continues Digging, and comes to a Cist, and sings_
This Cist of Chalk just like a grave For such a guest is meet, As if asleep here rests the brave, Below the turf three feet.
ANT.――How independent the knave is! How long hast thou been a Barrow Digger?
1st B. D.――Of all the Ages of the World I came not to’t in that Age when the whole Earth was in a state of Fusion.
ANT.――How long’s that since?
1st B. D.――Cannot you tell that? Every mechanic can tell that. It was that very day that young Pluto was born: he that was a Geologist. He that gave a New System by Posting through the bowels of the Earth in his chariot drawn by four Horses.
ANT.――Ay, marry! how did he do that?
1st B. D.――With Lucifer Matches.
ANT.――Why?
1st B. D.――Because he was mad after Proserpine.
ANT.――Peace I pray you! How long will the jaws of a Leviathan, or the bones of a Megatherium, lie in the earth e’er they crumble into dust?
1st B. D.――Faith if they be not fused in Pluto’s crucible for many thousand years.
[The remainder of the conversation relates to a controversy, now well-nigh forgotten, as to the identification of a skull said to have been that of Eugene Aram, who was executed at Tyburn, in 1759 for the murder of Daniel Clark. At the Newcastle Meeting of the British Association in 1838, a skull was produced as that of Eugene Aram, but as it had passed through many hands during the eighty years that had elapsed since his death, its authenticity was much questioned, especially as one eminent anatomist declared it to be the skull of a female.
In quoting this imitation of a scene from Hamlet, justice can hardly be done to the scarce volume from which it is taken, without quoting the instructive explanatory notes which accompany it.
Since 1839 great strides have been made in the general knowledge of the subjects this book deals with, yet considering the date at which it was produced it is remarkable not only for the facts it records, but for the theories it advances.
Barrows are artificial heaps of earth, sometimes surrounded by a narrow trench. They were reared by the early inhabitants of these isles, and their contents afford almost the only insight we have into the history of the Ancient Britons. Antiquaries are generally agreed that they were raised for sepulchral interments, as in them are usually found cists, with urns, human bones, spear and arrowheads of flint, hammers, and celts of stone, beads, buckles, pins, etc.
The Cists, which vary in size and shape from two to eight feet deep by three and four feet in diameter, are usually cut in chalk, and contain the urns, skeletons, etc.]
――――:o:――――
SHAKESPEARIAN READINGS.
Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where, To be a cold obstruction and to groan! This sensible, warm woman, to become A prudish clod, and the delighted spirit To live and die alone, or to reside With married sisters, and to have the care Of half a dozen children, not your own; And driven, for no one wants you, Round about the pendant world; or worse than worst, Of those that disappointment and pure spite Have driven to madness: ’Tis too horrible! The weariest and most troubled married life That age, ache, penury, or jealousy Can lay on nature, is a paradise To being an old maid.
――――――――
That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,) Walking between the garden and the barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken, standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And the domesticated fowl passed on, In henly meditation, bullet free.
――――――――
My father had a daughter got a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I good looking, I should, your lordship. And what’s her residence? A hut, my lord, she never owned a house, But let her husband, like a graceless scamp, Spend all her little means,――she thought she ought,―― And in a wretched chamber, on an alley, She worked like masons on a monument, Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed?
From Poems and Parodies, by PHŒBE CAREY, Boston, U.S., 1854.
――――:o:――――
BENJAMIN CÆSAR REDIVIVUS. (On the recovery of Lord Beaconsfield from an attack of gout).
Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day, Not like old Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, Will still go on in his corrupting play, Nor “stop a hole to keep the wind away.”
Fiz, January 18, 1879.
――――:o:――――
AN IRISH PLAYBILL. Kilkenny Theatre Royal. By His Majesty’s Company of Comedians.
The last night, because the Company go to-morrow to Waterford.
On Saturday, May 14, 1793, will be performed, by command of several respectable people in this learned metropolish for the benefit of Mr. Kearns, the tragedy of
HAMLET.
Originally written and composed by the celebrated Dan Hayes, of Limerick, and insarted in Shakespeare’s works.
Hamlet, by Mr. Kearns (being his first appearance in this character), who, between the acts, will perform several solos on the patent bagpipes, which play two tunes at the same time.
Ophelia, by Mrs. Prior, who will introduce several favourite airs in character, particularly “The Lass of Richmond Hill” and “We’ll all be unhappy together,” from the Reverend Mr. Dibdin’s oddities.
Polonius, the comical politician, by a young gentleman, being his first appearance in public.
The Ghost, the Gravedigger, and Laertes by Mr. Sampson, the great London comedian.
The parts of the King and Queen, by directions of the Rev. Father O’Callaghan, will be omitted, as too immoral for any stage.
The characters to be dressed in Roman shapes.
To which will be added an Interlude, in which will be introduced several sleight-of-hand tricks by the celebrated surveyor, Hunt.
The whole to conclude with the Farce, by Mr. Kearns, of
MAHOMET.
Tickets to be had of Mr. Kearns, at the sign of the Goat’s Beard, in Castle-street.
AS YOU LIKE IT.
THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.
Jaques.――――All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
AS YOU LIKE IT.――Act II.――Scene III.
――――:o:――――
THE STAGE COACH COMPANY.
――――MOTLEY is a Stage; Where men and women all are passengers.―― They have their middle and their corner seats; Which no one on the road presumes to change, Altho’ close-wedg’d with seven! And first the Lap-child, Mewling and pewking o’er your shoes and boots. And next the down-cast School-Boy, with his boxes, And pockets shilling-fill’d――and large plum cake, Which somewhat sweetens school! And next the Ensign, Cramming hot-rolls, and eyeing, at each cup, Molly, who serves the breakfast.――Next a Slumberer; Full of sour wine, with ill-look’d, unshav’d beard, Rolling his noddle, sudden in naps and wakings, Seeking the banish’d, chaste sobriety, Ev’n in the jolting coach!――And then the Vicar, In sloping belly, with fat tithe pig lin’d; With grizzled wig, and silken scarf-form’d vest, Strew’d with rappee; his elbows lifted high, ’Tis so he digs your ribs!――The sixth niche shows A meagre, mortified, warm-wrapp’d Old Maid; With morning cap snug-drawn, and muff up-held, Her curving nose and chin, seeking approach, The sole good points she shews, and her shrill voice Pour’d forth against the boldness of the age, Full oft repeats the theme!――Last plac’d of all, Which ends this “Worshipful Society,” Sits a young Nymph, in ev’ry thing reverse, Sans sleeves, sans coats, sans cap, sans everything!
From Fugitive Verse and Prose, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester, 1803.
――――:o:――――
THE PATRIOT’S PROGRESS.
――――St. Stephens is a stage, And half the opposition are but players: For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects, Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts, Their acts being sev’n. At first the Demagogue, Railing and mouthing at the hustings’ front: And then the cogging Candidate, with beer, Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to voters Unwillingly a pledge. And then the Member, Crackling like furnace, with a flaming story Made on the country’s fall. Then he turns Courtier, Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife, Pleas’d with all rulers, zealous for the church, Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy, Ev’n from the Canon’s mouth. And then a Secretary, In fair white waistcoat, with boil’d chicken lin’d With placid smile, and speech of ready answer, Lib’ral of promises and army contracts, And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings him To be a snug retired old baronet, With ribband red on breast, and star on side: His early zeal for change a world too hot For his cool age: and his big eloquence, Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes―― And we must pay the piper. Scene the last, That ends this comfortable history, Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage, With cash, with coronet――with all but conscience.
From Posthumous Parodies, published by John Miller, Bow Street, London, 1814.
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.
――――“The world’s a stage,” And Man has seven ages,”―― So Shakespeare writes (king of dramatic sages!) But he forgot to tell you, in his plan, That Woman plays her part, as well as Man.
First, how the Infant heart with triumph swells, When the red coral shakes its silver bells; She, like young statesmen, when the rattle rings, Leaps at the sound, and struts in leading strings.
Next, little Miss, in pinafore so trim, With nurse so noisy, and mamma so prim; Eager to tell you all she has learned to utter, Lisps as she grasps the allotted bread and butter; Type of her sex, who, though no longer young, Holds everything with ease――except her tongue!
A Schoolgirl then, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father’s gout, and mother’s vapours; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows: “Betty” (she cries), “it comes into my head, Old maids grow cross, because their cats are dead; My governess has been in such a fuss About the death of her old tabby puss; She wears black stockings! Ha! ha! what a pother ’Cause one old cat’s in mourning for another!” ――The child of Nature, free from pride and pomp, And sure to please, though nothing but a romp.
Next, riper Miss, who, nature more disclosing, Now finds some traits of art are interposing; And, with blue laughing eyes behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor――Man!
Behold her now――an ogling vain Coquette, Catching male gudgeons in her silver net; Whilst the fair forehead tresses, frizzled full, Rival the tufted locks that grace the bull!
Then comes that sober character――the Wife, With all the dear distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a thousand joys extend, For what may not upon a card depend? Now she’ll snatch half a glance at opera, ball, A meteor traced by none, though seen by all; ’Till “spousy” finds, while anxious to immure her, A patent coffin only can secure her.
At last the Dowager, in ancient flounces, With snuff and spectacles, she folly trounces, And, moralising, thus the age denounces: “How bold and forward each young flirt appears! Courtship, in my time, lasted seven years; Now seven little months suffice, of course, For courting, marrying, scolding, and divorce; They say we have no souls; but what more odd is―― Nor men nor women now have any bodies! When I was young, my heart was always tender, And would, to every spouse I had, surrender; Their wishes to refuse, I never durst, And my fourth died as happy as my first!”
Truce to such splenetic and rash designs, And let us mingle candour with our lines: In all the stages of domestic life―― As child or sister, parent, friend, or wife―― Woman, the source of every fond employ, Softens affliction, and enlivens joy. What is your boast, male rulers of the land? How cold and cheerless all you can command! Vain your ambition, vain your wealth and power, Unless kind woman share the raptured hour; Unless ’midst all the glare of pageant art, She adds her smile, and triumphs in your heart! ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN STAGES OF ÆSTHETICISM.
――――All the world’s Æsthetic, And all the men and women merely æsthetes; They have their yearnings and their ecstasies; And each man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven stages. First, the Philistine, Sneering at Art’s high transcendental charms; And next the clinging Pupil, with his lily And elongated chin, gliding like snake To study in the school. Then, the Acolyte, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful sonnet Made to a dado. Then, the full-fledged Poet, Full of strange whims, long-haired as Absalom, Jealous of fame, profuse of attitude, Seeking the bubble reputation E’en at the tea-pot’s spout. Then, the Professor, With bilious mien and clothes not wisely cut, His monologues quite too idealised, Bursting with Culture and the Infinite; And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts Into the lank and velvet-suited Humbug, With nippers on his nose and tuft on chin; His mystic style, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk audience; while his croaky voice, Striving again to rouse to rapture, seems But senseless in its sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is utter idiotcy and mere oblivion, Sans mind, sans taste, sans Art, sans everything.
[This parody was quoted in “The Æsthetic Movement in England” by Walter Hamilton (Third Edition, Reeves and Turner, London 1882), in which work will be found full particulars of the peculiar form of Art revival here satirised. Though the cant of Æstheticism is fashionable no longer, the good that was effected by the serious devotees of the worship of Beauty and Culture is very visible in our domestic architecture, our house decorations, furniture, and china, as compared with the styles in vogue thirty years since.]
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THE SEVEN AGES OF INTEMPERANCE.
――――All the world’s a bar room And all the men and women merely tipplers: They have their bottles and their glasses; And one man in his time takes many quarts, His drink being seven kinds.――At first the infant, Taking cordial in the nurse’s arms; And then, the whining school-boy with his drop Or two of porter, just to make him creep More willingly to school.――And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, o’er his lemonade Brewed into whisky-punch.――Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and reeling mad with brandy. Brutal and beastly, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the fiend Intemperance E’en in the gallon’s mouth.――And then the justice In fair round belly, with Madeira lined, Most elegantly drunk, superbly corned, Full of wise saws against the use of gin, And so he swallows wine.――The sixth drink Shifts into the lean and bloated dram-drinker, A spectacle his nose, he’s scorched inside; The wretch’s ragged hose, a world too wide For his shrunk shank: and his once manly hand, Shaking the cup of tea, well lined with rum, Seems now five palsied bones. Last drink of all, That ends intoxication’s history, Is laudanum, self murder’s long oblivion Sans Faith, sans Hope, sans Life, sans everything.
The Comic Magazine. Fourth series 1834.
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JAQUES IN CAPEL COURT.
――――All the world are stags! Yea, all the men and women merely jobbers! They have their brokers and their share-accounts, And one man in his time tries many lines, The end being total ruin. First, the greenhorn, Dabbling and dealing in a lucky spec; And then the prosperous seller, with his profits And joyous winning face, buying like mad, Unwilling to sell out; and then, the loser, Sighing like furnace, with a woful prospect Of the next settling day! Then the director, Full of strange schemes, and lodged at the west-end, Keeping a cab, and sudden growing rich,―― Getting a bubble reputation Even in Capel Court. And then the bankrupt, With his debts’ schedule large, and no assets: By all his decent friends entirely cut,―― Full of bad scrip, and fertile of fresh schemes; And so he plays his game. The sixth step sinks Into the low and herring-gutted stag, With spectacles on nose and list in hand; His youthful gains all spent, the world too wide―― ――Awake to be ta’en in, and his long line Of hapless creditors that idly wait And whistle for their cash. Last scene of all, That ends this sad but common history, Is――Union pauperism, and oakum picking; Sans beer, sans beef, sans tea, sans everything.
Punch. November 1, 1845.
[This was published during the period of the Railway Mania, when speculation in the new Railroad stock was at its height. One of the entrances to the London Stock Exchange is in Capel Court, and it is a favourite rendezvous for Stockbrokers, and their clients. Stags, in Stock-Exchange phraseology, are persons who apply for shares in a newly formed Company, not because they wish to hold the shares, but because they hope to sell the allotment at a premium.]
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THE POETRY OF STEAM.
――――The world’s ruled by Steam, And all the men and women are its subjects: It guides their movements and their whereabouts; And this steam, in its time, plays many parts, Its acts being Seven Ages. At first, the kettle, Hissing and sputtering on a kitchen hob, And then NEWCOMEN’S Engine, to its piston, By atmospheric pressure, giving force Imperfectly to pump; Then WATT’S condenser; More economic, with its stuffing box And double acting movement: Then a steam-boat, Full of strange smells, and cramm’d like NOAH’S ark, (It, on high pressure, sudden and quick to explode) Raising up FULTON’S reputation In every body’s mouth: Then the steam horse, By STEPHENSON devised, on Wall’s End fed, With boiler grimed and――wheels of clumsy cut, Spurning brass knobs, and copper ornaments―― And so he plays his part. The Sixth age shifts Into the war of broad and narrow gauge; BRUNEL on one, HUDSON on t’ other side―― Their several lines stretching a world too wide For the Committees, and Steam’s manly voice, That, in the kettle’s childish treble piped, Now whistles o’er the world. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is general brotherhood, and mere oblivion Of troops, of wars, of blood, and all such things.
Punch, July 25, 1846.
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THE SEVEN AGES OF THE REPUBLIC.
――――France is a stage, And all her heroes little more than players. Her Kings their exits have, and entrances; And the Republic runs its round of parts, Its acts being seven ages. First, Young France, Emeuting and plotting, e’en in the nurse’s arms; Then ouvrier out of work, casquette on head, And frowning hairy face, going, in faith, To LOUIS BLANC to school. Then LAMARTINE, Spouting away, writing a score of sonnets Unto Dame Liberty’s eyebrow; then Mobile, Clapped in strange clothes, and bearding barricades, Zealous against old friends in sudden quarrel, Taking a sight at death and devastation E’en in the cannon’s mouth; then CAVAIGNAC, In power despotic and a state of siege, With frown severe, and beard of Algiers cut, O’er-riding Law with a soldier’s insolence―― And so he plays his part. The sixth age shows Poor Liberty, with Constitution weak, Halting ’twixt Anarchy and Despotism, Her youthful bonnet rouge a world too wide For her shrunk brains, and the big boastful voice, Turning again to the old treble, pipes LOUIS NAPOLEON in. Last scene of all That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, Sans trade, sans tin, sans press, sans everything.
[This Parody appeared in Punch, November 25, 1848, at which time the form of government in France was nominally Republican, though very unsettled. King Louis Philippe had been forced to abdicate in February, 1848, and a republic was proclaimed, of which Louis Napoleon (afterwards Emperor) was elected President. Around the Parody were seven illustrations, drawn by the celebrated Richard Doyle, representing “Young France mewling and puking in the Nurse’s arms;” “The Ouvrier creeping like snail unwillingly to school;” “Lamartine inditing a sonnet to Liberty’s Eyebrow;” “The Garde Mobile seeking the Bubble reputation in the Cannon’s mouth;” “The Justice with eyes severe,” a portrait of General Cavaignac; and, last scene of all, poor France with her feet in Hot Water, and Louis Napoleon in the back ground carrying the fatal Idées Napoliennes, which finally brought him, and his country, to defeat and ruin.]
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ALL THE TOWN’S A SLIDE. (A Parody for the Frost.)
――――All the town’s a slide, And all the men and women merely skaters. They have their slippings and their flounderings, And one man in his life has many falls: His fate having seven stages. At first, the infant, Shivering and shaking in his nurse’s arms; And then the shuffling school-boy, with his highlows And hobnailed sole and heel, cutting-out slides Instead of going to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, till with woeful tumble He and his mistress lie low. Then a soldier, Wearing odd skates, and bearding all the park; Jealous of others, sudden and quick in turning, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the deepest holes. And then the iceman In fair round hat, with a good cape on, lined With oilskin clear, and coat of formal cut, Full of ice-saws and modern instruments; And so he plays his part. The sixth stage slips Into the lean and slippery pantaloon, With icicle on nose, and stick in hand, His India-rubber shoes a world too large For his shrunk feet; and his poor trembling knees Straggling apart like childish helplessness, He tumbles on the ground! Last scene of all That ends this cold and frosty history Is a sharp wind――upsetting everyone, Sans stick, sans cloak, sans hat, sans everything.
Punch 1850.
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THE SEVEN AGES OF A PUBLIC MAN.
――――Public Life’s a stage, And all the men in office merely players: They have their characters and salaries And one man in his course plays many parts, And acts through seven ages. First the infant, High born, inheriting a coat of arms, And then the Public School-boy, with his satchel, And shining lot of fag, going by rail, Uncaringly to school; then the Collegian Boating and driving, with a comic ballad, And supercilious eyebrow. Then the Patriot Full of strong oaths, and moustached like the pard, Anxious for honour, not disposed to quarrel With any decent situation, Suffice that can one’s mouth. And then the Member, Quoting old saws and modern instances, In fair round paunch, with public dinners lined; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered Minister; With spectacles, and prose, and votes on side, His youthful views renounced, a world too wide For his shrunk wits and his once manly voice, Trying in vain to hoax the people, pipes A miserable sound. Last scene of all, That ends this sad disgraceful history, Is childish Red-tapism, and mere routine: Sans heart, sans brains, sans pluck, sans everything.
Punch, May, 1855.
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CATALOGUE OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
――――All the thing’s a farce, And all the time and labour merely wasted. It has its entries and its indexes, And one man with his time plays but the fool In poring o’er the pages. First the Volume, Bulky and ponderous in the porter’s arms, And then the heavy binding, with its edges And greasy leather backs, letting it slide Gradually to the ground. And then the titles, Mixed up like hodge-podge――here a book of ballads Publish’d by BEALE or BOOSEY. Then a quarto, Full of strange types, and letter’d all in black, Printed on vellum――ancient in type and paper, Cramming the author’s reputation Right down the student’s mouth. And then the law-book In pale brown calfskin, with gross humbug lined, With rules severe, and forms of rigid cut, Full of strange laws and musty precedents: And so this forms a part. The volume shifts Like change to clown or slipper’d pantaloon, To subjects no one knows――from side to side The eye may roll――the topics are too wide To be embraced――and the loud public voice, Turning again to childish treble, pipes And whistles for its wants. Last scene of all, That ends this strange mysterious catalogue, Is perfect uselessness and mere oblivion, Sans head――sans tail――in fact, sans everything.
[In these lines, which appeared a good many years ago, Mr. Punch was unduly severe on the Catalogue of the British Museum, which is a marvel of industry, and accuracy. By the system adopted it is only necessary to know the name of an author to be able to procure any of his works, and should any difficulty arise the courteous Librarians and attendants are ever ready to render the most valuable assistance.]
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THE SEVEN AGES. By Mincing Lane Esq.,
――――Mincing-lane’s a stage, And all the workers there are merely players: Each plays the part his manager may choose, And in his part must mind his P.’s and Q.’s―― His acts being seven ages. At first the boy, Untimely breeched in galling corduroy; His eyes wide opened, and his lower jaw Meekly depressed in reverential awe―― Bound for three miserable years to do A shopboy’s drudgery without his screw, Then the meek junior, with a moonlike face, Creeping like snail unwilling to his place, Sleepy from last night’s going to the play And youthful soakings of convivial clay. And then the lover, in resplendent scarf And gorgeous pin, and boots too tight by half, Spending with her he loves in lanes――away From town――his one brief blissful holiday, Seated in cosy arbour with his lass, Pledging his love in cups of sparkling Bass. And then the Volunteer, with gun in hand, Scaring invaders from his native land, Seeking, good man, the bubble reputation In hebdomadal perambulation In quiet spots――his partner by his side Taking his youthful progeny for a ride. And then the market clerk――rotund is he; A man of substance; knowing to a T What shares are discount, premium, or par―― What “mule twist” was, and what “grey shirtings” are: And so he plays his part. The next age shifts Into the book-keeper who seldom lifts His eyes from off his book――who measures time Not by the grass covered with glist’ning rime, Nor song of blackbirds, nor the budding May, Nor scent of meadows filled with new-mown hay, Nor falling dew of autumn time――yet stay, He notes the falling due of quarter-day. Last scene of all that ends this strange career Is utter friendlessness. Not one kind tear On his account philanthropists can wring; He dies sans home, sans friends, sans everything.
The Hornet, January 1, 1868.
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THE POLITICIAN’S SEVEN AGES.
[The seven ages of a politician might be enumerated somewhat as follows. It may be necessary to premise that Cranbourne Alley was the name given by the profane to the followers of Lord Salisbury, then Lord Cranbourne, when he voted against the Ministerial Reform Bill.]
――――At first the Tory, Pompous and prosing in his elbow chair; And then the doubtful Dizzyite, with suffrage, And firm belief in rates,――sneaking, like lamb, Quite patiently, to “school.”
Then Cranbourne Alley, Sighing for novelty, with woeful back-glance Made at the Tory benches.
Then the Liberal Full of strange whims, and reckless as a Rad; Jealous for office, sudden at wrong conclusions; Seeking the bubble alteration, E’en gainst his country’s welfare.
Then the Brightite, With fair round periods, with bad logic lined; With ayes and noes aye in minority; Full of wise schemes, and wild philosophy: And so he plays his game.
The sixth age shifts Into the Beales and Potter Demagogue, With banner overhead, and pole in hand; His common sense all gone,――the world too small For his bold flight;――his once persuasive voice, Turning tow’rds pot-house politicians, rants and vapours to a mob.
Last scene of all, That generally ends this history, Is second Toryism, or utter lassitude;―― Sans hope, sans care, sans mind, sans everything.
Once a Week, June 27, 1868.
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THE SEVEN AGES OF ACTING.
1. First the Infant mewling and puling in the dresser’s arms――waiting to go on at eighteenpence a night.
2. Then the Pantomime Imp, with his whistle and dirty morning face, crawling like snail unwillingly to rehearsal.
3. And then the Jeune Premier, smoking like a furnace, with woeful bad legs. “Made-up,” too, in moustache and eyebrows.
4. Then the Melodramatic Artist, full of strange oaths, bearded, and wearing pads, jealous in liquor, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking bubble reputation, even at an East-end theatre.
5. And then the Low Comedian, in big ulster, with good flannel lined.
6. Sixth age, scene shifts, and at Christmas plays the lean and slippered pantaloon. The wardrobe hose, a world too wide for his shrunk shank.
7. Last scene of all in this strange, eventful history in second- sightedness, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything――but hot gin toddy. WALLIS MACKAY. St. Stephens’ Saturnalia, December, 1884.
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THE SEVEN AGES OF LOVE.
Man in his day loves many times and oft, For Nature’s made him uncontent with one; He breathes a hundred vows in accents soft Ere on the earth his pilgrimage is run.
First comes the baby, in his nurse’s arms, With button mouth stretched wide for pap-filled spoon; Or else with clutching fingers, eager palms, Waiting and weeping for his love――the moon.
The schoolboy next, with hungry, longing gaze Fixed on the face of one of thirty years; Unversed, as yet, in guileful worldly ways, Bemoaning youth with bitter sobs and tears.
Later the man, all furious in Love’s pains, Yet humbly sighing soft on bended knee; Swearing his heart out that the globe contains But one adorable and perfect she.
And then the soldier, fierce in love as fight, With twirled moustache and rugged, sun-browned cheek, Claiming young Beauty as the warrior’s right, Then scorning conquest as a passing freak.
The Justice next, with pockets golden lined, With money bags to lure and satyr leer; Resolved at fifty years a maid to find, As wife for two and nurse for twenty years.
Sixth stage, the pantaloon, wan, shrunk, and thin, With limbs half paralysed and senses numb, Chucking the nurs’ry maid beneath the chin And mumbling nonsense with a toothless gum.
Last scene of all. Blear-eyed, with shrivelled neck, Laid by, for Death to claim, upon the shelf; A fretful, peevish, crabbed, and cross-grained wreck, Loving but one thing, and that one thing――self.
So wags the world! From life’s first blush of light, Through happy morning to bright afternoon, Till falling shades of evening lead to night―― And love?――The last is self, the first the moon!
Judy, January 19, 1881.
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THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. By a Cantankerous Old Curmudgeon.
――――All the world’s a Wardrobe, And all the girls and women merely wearers: They have their fashions and their fantasies, And one she in her time wears many garments Throughout her Seven Stages. First, the baby, Befrilled and broidered, in her nurse’s arms. And then the trim-hosed schoolgirl, with her flounces And small-boy scorning face, tripping skirt-waggling, Coquettishly to school. And then the flirt, Ogling like Circe, with a business œillade Kept on her low-cut corset. Then a bride Full of strange finery, vestured like an angel, Veiled vaporously, yet vigilant of glance, Seeking the Woman’s heaven, Admiration, Even at the Altar’s steps. And then the matron, In fair rich velvet with suave satin lined, With eyes severe, and skirts of youthful cut Full of dress-saws and modish instances, To teach her girls their part. The sixth age shifts Into the grey yet gorgeous grandmamma, With gold pince-nez on nose and fan at side, Her youthful tastes still strong, and worldly wise In sumptuary law, her quavering voice Prosing of Fashion and Le Follet, pipes Of robes and bargains rare. Last scene of all, That ends the Sex’s Mode-swayed history, Is second childishness and sheer oblivion Of youth, taste, passion, all――save love of Dress!
Punch, May 20, 1882.
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There are many other parodies of this speech. One was contained in a burlesque operatic tragedy performed at the Lyceum Theatre in July, 1812, entitled “Highgate Tunnel, or the Secret Arch,” of which the argument was that “All the world’s a stable.” Unfortunately this play is not to be found in the Library of the British Museum, consequently the parody cannot be reproduced, but the following, on the subject of Carriages, is of a somewhat kindred nature. It is taken from The Sporting Times of April 18, 1885, but is here given without the illustrations which embellished it, when it first appeared, in that sportive, and very facetious journal:
THE SEVEN CARRIAGES OF MAN.
“All the world’s a stage, &c., &c., And one man in his time tries many traps.”
First, the baby in his carriage. Observe the animal’s expression, he is mewling and puking.
Next comes the schoolboy on his tricycle. Special attention has been bestowed on his “shining morning face.”
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail On tricycle to school.
Then the lover, in spite of proctors and bulldogs, tries to drive a very scratch tandem with the idea of impressing the lady of his heart for the time being.
And then the lover. Who in scratch tandem drives a Tottie With golden hair and jet black eyebrows.
The soldier, full of strange oaths as in Willy Shakespeare’s time, but not now bearded like a pard――vide Queen’s Regulations, sec. vii., par. 20――drives the regimental coach.
The justice stows “his fair round belly” into a brougham. A view of the said lower portion of his bosom is obtained through the window.
The lean and slippered pantaloon hides his infirmities in a bath chair.
And, last carriage of all, the hearse, in which we all take our final drive.
An economic funeral ends the list Sans plumes, sans mutes, sans pall, sans everything.
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A fortnight later the same paper contained another parody, on the same speech, entitled The Seven Drinks of Man, and fortunately for the readers of “Parodies” the Editor of “The Sporting Times” has kindly lent the wood engravings which accompanied it. These distantly remind one, in their effects of light and shade, of some of the best works of Rembrandt, and whilst it may perhaps be said that they lack in execution, in conception they are immense.
THE SEVEN DRINKS OF MAN.
――――“All the world’s a bar, And all the men and women merely drinkers.”
“First the infant, mewling and pewking in his nurse’s arms, and for his bottle crying.”
Then the schoolboy, quaffing his ginger-beer, Until “he well nigh bursts.”
“Then the lover, with a woful ballad, Made to his mistress’ eye-brow ’neath the subtle inspiration of the Boy.”
“Then the soldier, slaking his parched throat, Made dry by last night’s mess, with many a brandy and soda.”
“Then the justice, with fair, round belly, With good claret lined.”
“The lean and slippered pantaloon, Who, with his feet in foot-bath, sits and drinks his gruel.”
“Last drink of all, beef-tea.” I feel quite mixed after the variety.――Yours, P.M.T.
The Sporting Times, May 2, 1885.
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AS YOU LIKE IT.
“Rosalind MRS. LANGTRY.”――Playbill.
Crutch, in cosy box enshrin’d, Showers bouquets on Rosalind; Gallery is not behind In its praise of Rosalind; Common “pro’s” for years may grind, Not so gentle Rosalind. Beauty and high birth combin’d Must produce a Rosalind! Where can we an equal find To our latest Rosalind? Critics sour and critics kind Battle over Rosalind. To the charms who can be blind Of this pretty Rosalind? Streets with carriages are lined, Audiences for Rosalind, Braving chill September’s wind For the sake of Rosalind; Rank and fashion, lately dined, Flock to feast on Rosalind. But I can’t make up my mind, To accept this Rosalind!
Judy, October 4, 1882.
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Poetry and snow do not blend well. Sleet extinguishes all feu sacré in the bard. Early one morning last week, when a few gentle flakes were falling, I thought of the song of my friend Amiens in “As you Like It,” and laughing at the elements, attempted a rough parody of the first verse. It was as follows:――
Blow, blow thou Winter wind; Snow, too, if so inclined: I cannot change your mood. I’ll order Toddy hot And drink of it a lot―― The strongest can be brewed. Heigh ho! Sing heigh ho! Away with melancholy. To grumble at the weather is nought but folly. Then heigh ho! The holly! This life is most jolly.
(An interval of six hours is supposed to elapse.)
Freeze! Freeze! The wind does blow! I’m “Boycotted” by the snow, I search and search in vain For cab, or bus, or train. Miles off is home――and worse, I’ve no coin in my purse! In the snow, sing heigh ho! to the green folly Of a fellow feigning to be happy or jolly. Heigh ho! ’Tis folly, by golly! To hope to be jolly! ANONYMOUS.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
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A BACHELOR.
(After Romeo’s description of an apothecary. Act v. Scene i.)
I do remember an old BACHELOR, And hereabouts he dwells――whom late I noted In suit of sables, with care worn brow, Conning his books――and meagre were his looks: Celibacy had worn him to the bone; And in his silent parlour hung a coat, The which the moth had used not less than he. Four chairs, one table, and an old hair trunk, Made up its furniture; and on his shelves A grease-clad candlestick, a broken mug, Two tablets, and a box of old cigars; Remnants of volumes, once in some repute, Were thinly scattered round, to tell the eye Of prying stranger――this man had no wife. His tatter’d elbow gap’d most piteously; And ever as he turned him round, his skin Did through his stockings peep upon the day. Noting his gloom, unto myself I said, “And if a man did covet single life, Reckless of joys that matrimony gives, Here lives a gloomy wretch would show it him In such most dismal colours, that the shrew, Or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse, Were each a heaven compared with such a life.”
The Maids, Wives, and Widows Penny Magazine, October 27, 1832.
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I do remember a cook’s shop―― And here about it stands――him late I noted In tuck’d up sleeves, with night cap o’er his brows, Cutting up joints――pleas’d were his looks, The fatt’ning trade had cover’d well his bones, And in his reeky shop a sirloin hung, A buttock stuff’d; nice tripe, and other strings Of well spic’d sausages――and upon his board A sovereign remedy for empty stomachs, Green peas and ducks, pork, steaks, and mutton chops, Remnant of goose, pigeon-pye and plates of ham, Were amply set out to make up a show, Noting this plenty to myself I said; An’ if a man did need a dinner now, Whose dainty smell is present appetite, Here lives a greasy rogue would cater one. If I may trust the flattering truth of nose, This should be Porridge Island―― Being twelve o’th’clock――the knives and forks are laid.
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I do remember a young pleader, And hereabouts he dwells; whom late I noted In coat once black, with overwhelming brow, Pondering o’er cases――sallow were his looks, And midnight thought had worn him to the bone; And in his sombre chambers lay confused, Black dusty papers, “general issues” here, “Demurrers special” there――matter apt to teach That, to our noble law, justice and form Alike are dear――and o’er his shelves A beggarly account of dusty volumes―― Wentworth, and Coke, and Saunders――old editions all, With a few numbers of the late reports, Were thinly scattered to make up a show. Noting his little practice, thus I said: “An’ if a man would patch a rotten case, Give to transaction dark a face of snow, Here lives the lawyer that might draw the pleas, Oh! this same thought doth but forerun my need―― I have a cause, and will retain him quickly, As I remember, this should be the chamber; But it not being term the door is closed.” What, ho!
From The Poetical Note Book and Epigrammatic Museum; by GEORGE WENTWORTH, London, 1824.
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The following parody was written by Robert Surtees, Esq., M.A. F.S.A., author of a history of the County Palatine of Durham:――
I do remember a strange man, a herald―― And hereabouts he dwells――whom late I noted In parti-colour’d coat like a fool’s jacket, Or morrice-dancer’s dress――musty his looks, Like to a piece of ancient shrivell’d parchment, Or an old pair of leather brogues twice turn’d; And round the dusky room he did inhabit, Whose wainscot seem’d as old as Noah’s ark, Were divers shapes of ugly, ill-formed monsters, Hung up on scutcheons like an old church aisle―― A blue boar rampant, and a griffin gules, A gaping tyger, and a cat-o’-mountain, What nature never form’d, nor madman dream’d, Gorgons and hydras and chimæras dire; And straight before him lay a dusty heap Of ancient legers, books of evidence, Old blazon’d pedigrees and antique rolls, (Which made full oft the son beget the father, And give to maiden ladies fruitful issue.) Torn parish registers, probates, and testaments―― From which, with cunning art and sage contrivance, He fairly culled divers pedigrees; And next, by act of transmutation rare, Did change his musty vellum into gold―― For straight comes in a gaudy city youth, (Whose father, for oppression and vile cunning, Lies roaring low in Limbo lake the while,) And straight depositeth some forty guineas, And after some few words of mystic import, Of Mowbray, Howard, Vere, Plantagenet, And other necromantic terms of art, Most gravely utter’d by the smoke-dried sage, He takes, in lieu of gold, the vellum roll, With arms emblazon’d and Earl Marshal’s signet, And struts away, a well-born gentleman. Observing this, I to myself did say, “And if a man did need a coat of arms, Here lives a caitiff that would sell him one.”
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THE SHAKESPEARE OF THE PERIOD.
Shakespeare pur et simple will soon be beyond the comprehension of audiences accustomed to burlesque, sensation drama, and the cancan. An enterprising manager (we believe he thinks of turning Somerset House into a theatre, with hotel accommodation, so that visitors from the country can take a ticket, including entrance, supper, bed, and breakfast) has offered a prize for the best modern version of Shakespeare’s plays. We have been favoured with a perusal of the M.S.S. sent in, and give the following versions of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, without the kind permission of the authors:――
ROMEO.
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND T. W. ROBERTSON.
ACT THE SECOND.――ASSIGNATION!
SCENE.――CAPULET’S Garden.
Enter ROMEO.
Rom.――That board says “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” I am a trespasser; but what matters prosecution so that I can stand beneath the window of the girl I love? What is love? Men live for it, die for it, and lose caste for it; but――
JULIET appears on balcony, with watering-pot.
Jul.――I have been thinking so much about that young man I met at the ball that I nearly forgot my poor flowers. There’s somebody in the garden. Who can it be?
Rom.――Have you forgotten me so soon, then?
Jul.――I have not forgotten you. But you have done wrong to come here; if my father saw you he would give you in charge.
Rom.――I have been thinking of you for the last two hours.
Jul.――And I have been thinking of you. How strange that we should think of one another!
Rom.――We must be in love.
Jul.――What is love?
Rom.――The very question I asked myself five minutes ago.
Jul.――What a lovely night! And look at the stars! Are they far off?
Rom.――Ah! hundreds and thousands of million miles.
Jul.――They seem about a mile-and-a-half from the earth.
Rom.――But they are not so far from the earth as you are from me.
Jul. (leaning over)――We are nearer now.
Rom. (holding spout of water-pot)――And the waterpot join us. For how long?
Jul.――Until I am tired of holding it, I suppose.
Rom.――Will you be out to-morrow morning?
Jul.――I always go to the village to get an egg for papa’s breakfast.
Rom.――Meet me at the Friar’s.
Jul.――What for?
Rom.――To be married, of course.
Jul.――How nice! And I can take back the egg as if nothing had happened.
Rom.――Then you think more of the egg than you do of me! Good night!
Jul.――Good night! Be careful of the wall. And beware of the dog.
Rom.――After all, what is a wall?
Jul.――And what is a dog?
[JULIET waters flowers. ROMEO retreats a few steps and watches her. Curtain falls――should it be raised JULIET has dropped the water-pot, and is lost in reverie; ROMEO is halfway over the wall.] ――――:o:――――
ROMEO AND HIS JULIET.
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND T. MADDISON MORTON.
SCENE.――A garden.
ROMEO discovered on wall.
Rom.――If there’s one thing damps a fellow’s ardour it’s broken bottles. Now then for a jump.
(ROMEO slides off wall, and falls into cucumber frame.)
I always disliked cucumbers, and now they have had their revenge. Now then to reach my charmer’s window.
Climbs up water-butt and falls in. JULIET appears on balcony.
Jul.――I heard something. It must have been the cats.
ROMEO’S head appears from water-butt.
O, Romeo, Romeo, what a cold you will get!
Rom.――Suppose you help us out, and pity us afterwards. (_She pulls him out._) My lovely Julio――I mean Romlet――bother it, Capulo――no, no, Montaget. I shall forget my own name next.
Jul.――What’s in a name?
Rom.――A great deal――especially when you can’t remember it. Will you quit the domicile of your paternal parent, and slope off with your’s truly?
Jul.――But how can we marry? I haven’t a copper of my own.
Rom.――And seven-and-sixpence is all I possess. Have you no jewels?
Jul.――Only a coral necklace, and a silver spoon given to me by my godfather and godmothers at my baptism.
Rom.――With such treasures and our love kings might envy us.
Dog enters.
I’m off. Down, Ponto! Good night, Jupulet. Good dog?
Jul.――Come here, Ponto!
[Dog chases ROMEO; he climbs the wall; dog seizes his coat tails, tears them off, and runs about with them in his mouth.]
――――――――
ROW ME O TO JULIA YET!
OR,
THE COVE! THE LOVE!! AND THE TURTLE DOVE!!!
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND H. J. BYRON.
SCENE.――CAPULET’S Back Garden.
[Music, “Come into the Garden, Maud.”――Enter ROMEO, dressed as a young man of the day, smoking cigar.]
Rom.――For walls and gates I do not care a farden, And so I make my way into the garden; My conduct may seem like that of a rash’un, But on this plot I’ll give vent to my passion. I met her at the ball. We danced together, ’Tis true we only talked about the weather; But then our idle eyes spoke volumes nearly; And now I know I idolize her dearly, And come what will I never can forget Earth’s brightest jewel, lovely Jewelet.
Enter JULIET on balcony.
Jul.――Bother the cats! They quite disturb my rest.
Rom.――Now is my time.
Jul.―― They are getting quite a pest.
Rom.――The creature basking in your beauty’s glow Is not a Thomas Cat, but Romeo.
Jul.――A Montague!
Rom.―― Who’s aim’s your hand to claim; But as no doubt you’ll say, “What’s in an aim?”
Jul.――Aimey-vous me?
Rom.―― My very little game. I Adore you more than Leicester did his Aimey. Wilt fly with me? My love you cannot doubt it.
Jul.――Well, Romeo, I must romeonate about it. What is to-day?
Rom.―― Days, months, I quite forget, It may be June――I know but Julyet. I’ll take you to the Friar.
Jul.―― Let me see――
Rom.――Why, surely you are not afraid of me?
Jul.――I’ll meet you at the cell.
Rom.―― And cell I bring A marriage license.
Jul.―― Yes; also a ring.
DUET,――Air, “Burlesque Galop.”
Both.――The Montagues and Capulets will be in such a way, When they hear that Romeo and Juliet one fine day, Ran off and got married both together on the sly, Regardless of the hatred of each other’s family. O toodlee um, te oodleum, &c.
(JULIET plays tambourine――ROMEO dances a breakdown.)
――――――――
JULIET AND ROMEO.
(An Original Drama)
BY DION BOUCICAULT.
ACT 2.――SCENE 2.――_Terrace and grounds of Capulet Castle Balcony, L., with flowers on stand, and vine trees climbing up sides. Wall, R., on which grows real stone fruit. Italian view at back (to be painted on the spot.) Enter Retainers.
GRAND DANCE OF THE PERIOD BY A HUNDRED REAL VERONESE.
(Exeunt Retainers.
Enter ROMEO, dropping from wall by aid of a branch. Presently JULIET appears. They talk (but never mind the dialogue.) Enter Watchmen. They struggle with ROMEO. JULIET throws flower-pots at watchmen. Exeunt Watchmen, with broken heads. Here the lovers might speak; but perhaps words will only delay the action. CAPULET enters with Retainers. ROMEO is bound to a tree. During struggle JULIET descends from balcony by aid of vine, and fills Retainers’ muskets with water from a patent garden tube. CAPULET and Retainers retire. They point their muskets at ROMEO, CAPULET gives the word, but the muskets are harmless. JULIET picks up pruning knife and releases ROMEO. They are discovered. ROMEO is again a prisoner, when he tells CAPULET that amongst the papers to be opened at his death is the last will of CAPULET’S father, leaving all to charity. The old man blesses his children, and for a time, at least, the lovers are happy. But there are more sensations to come.
The Grasshopper, July 1, 1869.
――――:o:――――
MERCUTIO’S DESCRIPTION OF QUEEN MAB.
Mercutio.――Here comes Romeo――poor fellow he’s mooney Sweet on Rosaline! Oh, regular spooney,―― Found him this morning at the lady’s door, Waving up kisses to the second floor―― Radiant with joy, as Phœbus or Aurora, Wooing with warm smiles a second Flora! And then unto his lady love he played Upon the Jewish harp a serenade; While ever and anon there came a flow Of voice with “Sweep!” and then of “Milk below!”
ROMEO enters in a melancholy mood.
Mercu.――His bosom swells, the heavy sighs rise on it; The man’s in love――that’s about the size on it.
Romeo. (taking out photograph and kissing it)―― Sweet Rosaline! Nor yet as sweet by half As represented in this photograph. The sun was envious of those dainty hands―― So fist-like has he drawn them――and he brands The sweetest smile that ever heart did win, In likeness of a silly sort of grin!
Mercu. (looking over his shoulder)―― Sixpence in frame complete, that’s about it.
Romeo.――Now there you’re wrong, my friend; perhaps you doubt it? But fourpence is the figure now-a-days―― The walks of art are now but common ways.
(Kisses photograph and sighs.)
Mercu.――Good Romeo, are you ill?
Romeo.―― Yes, I’m queer.
Mercu.――Where do you feel it?
Romeo. (laying hand on heart) Oh! I feel it here.
Mercu.――Oh! you are in love――over head and ears―― But why so sad? Your eyes are set with tears, When you should smile.
Romeo.―― Rosy!
Mercu.――Pooh! forget her. You’ll see some other girl you’ll like much better.
Romeo.――I’ve dreamt a dream――Oh! ’twas a horrid dream!
Mercu.――Queen Mab’s been with your worship, it would seem. She is the very deuce, and goes to work By aid of pickled salmon and roast pork; Sits on the stomach of an Alderman; O’er every drowsy sense does hold her ban. Her waggon-spokes of grill’d and devilled bones, Her wheels give out a constant sound of groans; Her whip, a knotted lash of champagne wires; Her chariot, a stew-pan wrapped in fires; Her shouts are pepper, and her oaths are spice; She’s something nasty, after something nice. In fact, my buck, to speak out plain and fair, What you’ve been suffering from is the nightmare!
This extract is taken from “Romeo and Juliet Travestie, or the Cup of Cold Pison,” by Andrew Halliday.
The burlesque was produced at the Strand Theatre, on Thursday, November 3rd, 1859, when the part of Romeo was taken by Miss C. Saunders, whilst Miss Marie Wilton (now Mrs. Bancroft) performed Juliet, “a belle whom all the young fellows in Verona are anxious to ring.”
――――――――
At the end of the burlesque the ghost of Shakespeare rises, frowning, and holding up his finger menacingly.
Mercutio.――I see it’s Shakespeare. He’s angry with us.
All.―― Pray what have we done?
Romeo.――His noble tragedy we’ve turned to fun; And he don’t like it.
All.―― Oh, what shall we do?
Apothecary.――Some of you speak to him. Romeo, you Are the hero here, face it out――dare him, Soften him over a bit.――you know――square him!
Romeo. (going up to him)―― I’ll try. Immortal bard――illustrious Swan of Avon, Towards you, we own, we have not been behavin’, With that respect which we should like to pay, But the fact is, if we essayed your play, As you did write it――the boxes and the pit Would say we could not act the play a bit. And so that with us, not at us they may laugh, We’ve winnowed your fine corn into chaff.
(SHAKESPEARE bows.)
Nurse. (going up)――Another thing you must remember, Poet, You wrote burlesques yourself, and well you know it. In “The Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
(SHAKESPEARE disappears.)
――――――――
Messrs. T. and G. Shrimpton, of Broad Street, Oxford, published another burlesque on this tragedy. It was entitled “Romeo and Juliet; or the Shaming of the True;” an Atrocious Outrage perpetrated at Oxford, by the St. John’s College Amateurs, during Commemoration, 1868. The author’s name is not given.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
――――:o:――――
A burlesque of “The Merchant of Venice” was produced at the Olympic Theatre, London, on Monday July 4th, 1853. It was entitled “Shylock or, the Merchant of Venice Preserved. An entirely new reading of Shakespeare, from an edition hitherto undiscovered by modern authorities, and which it is hoped may be received as the stray leaves of a Jerusalem Hearty-Joke.”
This burlesque was written by Mr. Francis Talfourd with a special view to furnishing F. Robson, with a character adapted to his peculiar abilities, and Shylock suited him admirably.
There are however no distinct parodies of any passages of the original which could be quoted without making long extracts. This is unnecessary, as the burlesque can be readily obtained from the theatrical publishers.
Bassanio. What find I here? (Opening the leaden casket.) Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips, Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,―― How could he see to do them? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look, how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, Act III. Scene II.
――――:o:――――
Bassanio. What find I here? Fair Portia’s counterfeit? What demi-god Hath come so near creation, and what Doth the demi-god, forsaken caitiff, charge Per dozen? Move these eyes? Or, whether riding On the balls of mine, seem they in motion? Ask me an easier one.
Here are severed lips parted with sugar breath; Wonder if Jones――but, no! Perish The thought! And, also, perish Jones, The ringboned, spavined Jobberwock, If ever I do catch him hereabouts again!
Here in her hair the painter plays the spider, And hath woven a mesh to entrap The hearts of men, one of whom am I, By a large majority, and several counties And unbribed districts to hear from.
But her eyes! How could he see to do them? Having made one, methinks it would have power To steal both his――Ah! blessed thought! I’ll steal Her picture, now I hear her foot Upon the stairs!
Merry Folks.
――――:o:――――
SONG.
Tell me where is fancy bred Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy’s knell; I’ll begin it,――Ding, dong, bell.
――――――――
SONG.
(DEDICATED TO THE AUTHOR OF “GERMAN YEAST.”)
Tell me what is Fancy Bread, Is it alum, or white lead? How begot, how fashioned? Reply, Reply. It is engendered from old bones With glazing fed; the eater moans, ’Neath its weight his stomach groans; Bread of Fancy, hear thy knell Sounded by the Muffin-Bell; Ding dong Bell.
The Tomahawk, November 9, 1867.
――――:o:――――
NURSEY.
By a young and over-ambitious poet, on visiting the guardian of his childhood.
The jollity of Nursey is not feigned; She hoppeth, as a genteel wren or raven, Upon the neighbouring heath. I’m thrice caress’d; Caress’d by her who used to bring me cakes! She’s tidiest of the tidiest; and becomes In face more youthful through revolving time. Oft has she, in bygone temperate hour, Dulled my young ears with jaw and minstrelsy, And there she’d sit, and tell me queer odd things; For Nursey used to love the spectred fay, Foibles, since foiled by Cooke and Maskelyne; But then, I somehow reck’d them true myself, And in my mite mind murmured “what’s the odds When Nursey’s reason just is?” Therefore you, Though rather bored I see, remember this: That grateful we should be, each one of us For early teaching. So I say to Nursey That her kind care doth prompt us all to tender The deeds of Nursey!
Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley. (Cambridge, Jones and Piggott, 1883.)
――――:o:――――
CALVES’ FOOT JELLY.
This quality of jelly must be strained, And drop through bags like gentle dew from heaven; And, when the right consistence is obtained, By Portia ’tis to sick Bassanio given.
Judy, September 22, 1880.
MACBETH.
――――:o:――――
TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE Of the New Drury Lane Theatre.
GENTLEMEN,
Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of every body about me, and made me a burthen to my friends and a torment to Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite servants――that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook; and George Barnwell, his bookkeeper――I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woeful crisis, I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you inclosed a more detailed specimen of my case; if you could mould it into the shape of an address, to be said or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt, that I should feel the immediate affects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose.
I am, &c., MOMUS MEDLAR.
[Enter MACBETH in a red nightcap. PAGE following with a torch.]
Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell (She knows that my purpose is cruel), I’d thank her to tingle her bell As soon as she’s heated my gruel. Go, get thee to bed and repose―― To sit up so late is a scandal; But ere you have ta’en off your clothes, Be sure that you put out that candle. Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.
My stars, in the air here’s a knife!―― I’m sure it can not be a hum; I’ll catch at the handle, add’s life! And then I shall not cut my thumb. I’ve got him!――no, at him again! Come, come, I’m not fond of these jokes; This must be some blade of the brain―― Those witches are given to hoax.
I’ve one in my pocket, I know, My wife left on purpose behind her; She bought this of Teddy-high-ho, The poor Caledonian grinder. I see thee again! o’er thy middle Large drops of red blood now are spill’d, Just as much as to say, diddle diddle, Good Duncan, pray come and be kill’d.
It leads to his chamber, I swear; I tremble and quake every joint―― No dog at the scent of a hare Ever yet made a cleverer point. Ah, no! ’twas a dagger of straw―― Give me blinkers, to save me from starting; The knife that I thought that I saw Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.
Now o’er this terrestrial hive A life paralytic is spread; For while the one half is alive, The other is sleepy and dead. King Duncan, in grand majesty, Has got my state-bed for a snooze; I’ve lent him my slippers, so I May certainly stand in his shoes.
Blow softly, ye murmuring gales! Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking! For though a dead man tells no tales, Dead walls are much given to talking. This knife shall be in at the death―― I’ll stick him, then off safely get! Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth, For he’d ne’er stick at anything yet.
Hark, hark! ’tis the signal, by goles! It sounds like a funeral knell; O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls To call thee to heaven or hell. Or if you to heaven won’t fly, But rather prefer Pluto’s ether, Only wait a few years till I die, And we’ll go to the devil together. Ri fol de rol, &c.
[This song is taken from the celebrated Rejected Addresses by Horace and James Smith. The travesties on The Stranger and George Barnwell, (referred to in the above introduction) possess little, or no interest now, as the originals are obsolete, and it may be said that neither of these three travesties is equal to the other clever poems contained in The Rejected Addresses.]
――――:o:――――
INCANTATION. (1828).
Scene.――Penenden Plain, In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder――Enter three Brunswickers.
1_st Bruns._――Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawl’d.
2_nd B._――Once hath fool Newcastle bawl’d,
3_rd B._――Bexley snores; ’tis time, ’tis time,
1_st B._――Round about the caldron go, In the poisonous nonsense throw. Bigot spite, that long hath grown, Like a toad within a stone, Sweltering in the heart of Scott Boil we in the Brunswick pot.
All.――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Eldon, talk, and Kenyon scribble.
2_nd B._――Slaver from Newcastle’s quill In the noisome mess distil, Brimming high our Brunswick broth Both with venom and with froth. Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel, With that malty stuff that Chandos Drivels as no other man does, Catch (i. e. if catch you can) One idea, spick and span, From my Lord of Salisbury One idea, though it be Smaller than the “happy flea,” Which his sire, in sonnet terse Wedded to immortal verse.[36] Though to rob the son is sin, Put his one idea in; And to keep it company, Let that conjuror Winchelsea Drop but half another there, If he hath so much to spare. Dreams of murders and of arsons, Hatch’d in heads of Irish parsons, Bring from every hole and corner, Where ferocious priests, like Horner, Purely for religious good, Cry aloud for Papists’ blood, Blood for Wells, and such old women, At their ease to wade and swim in.
All.――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley talk, and Kenyon scribble.
3_rd B._――Now the charm begins to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto Scraps of Lethbridge’s old speeches Mix’d with leather from his breeches, Rinsings of old Bexley’s brains, Thickened (if you’ll take the pains) With that pulp which rags create, In their middle, nympha state, Ere, like insects frail and sunny, Forth they wing abroad as money. There――the Hell-broth we’ve enchanted―― Now but one thing more is wanted. Squeeze o’er all that orange juice, Castlereagh keeps cork’d for use, Which, to work the better spell, is Colour’d deep with blood of * * * Blood, of powers far more various, Even than that of Januarius, Since so great a charm hangs o’er it, England’s parsons bow before it.
All.――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
2_nd B._――Cool it now with * * * ’s blood, So the charm is firm and good. [Exeunt.
THOMAS MOORE.
――――:o:――――
THE DERBY VOTER’S SOLILOQUY. (Spoken in a darkened doorway with his face to the wall.)
Is this a sovereign which I feel behind me. Slipp’d gently into my hand? Come, let me sack thee: Art thou not precious metal, sensible To vision as to touch? or art thou but A sovereign of the mind, a false sensation, Proceeding from the beer-oppressed brain? I feel thee yet, a coin as palpable As this I now produce. Thou hint’st to me the side whereon I’m going; And such a candidate I am to choose. My conscience is the weakest of my senses, Which should rule all the rest. I feel thee still―― A blade that has no gudgeon in his blood, I ne’er was sold before. Pooh! no such thing; It is the freeman’s privilege which informs Thus to mine eyes. Now throughout all the land Protection’s dead; and wicked bribes abuse The voter’s trust; now COPPOCK celebrates Corruption’s offerings; and cunning EDWARDS, Subduing easy principle with pelf, Prowls on the watch, and thus with hidden face, The stumpy lavishes wide towards his design, Mute as a post. Ye men of sense and worth, Mark not my course, which way I vote, for fear, My very looks show I’ve been tamper’d with; And take the present honour from my name That now rests with it. Whiles I yet shall live, Votes I for treats and feeds and gold will give. I go and plump anon: the chink invites me. Hear it not, BERESFORD! for ’tis a knell That summons thee to follow JACOB BELL!
Punch, August, 1852.
So great was the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” that many inferior imitations were issued, amongst them being a small Volume, entitled “Accepted Addresses” published by Thomas Tegg. In it are poems jocularly ascribed to Lord Byron, and Walter Scott, there is also a burlesque, entitled “Macbeth Travestie, in three acts. With Burlesque annotations, after the manner of Dr. Johnson, G. Stevens, Esq., and the various Commentators.” The author acknowledges that the favorable reception which attended the Travestie on Hamlet, by John Poole, gave him the suggestion for the undertaking, to which it must be said, it is much inferior. It contains no parodies of sufficient interest or merit to be quoted.
――――――――
There was another “Macbeth Travestie” in two acts, written by Francis Talfourd, and performed at Henley-on-Thames, on the day of the regatta, June 17, 1847. This was published by E. T. Spiers, of High Street, Oxford, it was afterwards produced, with slight alterations, at the Strand Theatre, on January 10, 1848; and again at the Olympic Theatre, on April 25, 1853, when the part of Macbeth was performed by F. Robson. The London Edition (published by Lacy) has a humourous preface by William Farren. The Incantation Scene (scene IV., act II.) commences thus:――
WITCHES (singing)
We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh! We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh! We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh! Macbeth to terrify! Macbeth to terrify! Macbeth to terrify!
It’s a way they had on the stage-oh! When Melodrame was all the rage-oh! The audience with spells to engage-oh! So we’ll at a spell have a shy! So we’ll, &c.
THE INCANTATION.
1_st_ WITCH.――Apron strings of old maids-tabbies; Tongues of spifflicated babbies; Joinville of a greasy gent, Reeking with unhallowed scent.
2_nd_ WITCH.――Beards of maggots, maws of mummies, Fingers of flue-strangled chummies Heap in humbugs all to aid us―― Banjos, bones, and serenaders!
Holloway’s grease, and Frampton’s pills, Fuel fierce of human ills Mild emetics――one a dose is; Seventy-seven street-sweepers’ noses! Fashion new, that taste perverts―― See “the last new thing in shirts!” Slangy coats of aspect rare; And the “gent’s real head of hair!”
ALL THREE.――Double, double, toil and trouble―― Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
Enter MACBETH.
MACB.――That’s right, my hearties, keep the pot a boiling, I trust I’m not a family party spoiling. Perhaps you’ll tell me what it is you brew, For I’ve dropped in to take pot luck with you; That is, I’d know my destiny; you see, I’m not so easy as I’d wish to be.
1_st_ WITCH.――You’ve come to the right shop, my lord, for we Can read the future.
MACB.―― Read? You know full well, It takes you all you know to raise a spell.
2_nd_ WITCH.――Learn, Macbeth, for you’re haughtiness of late, Yours is a sort of horti-cultural fate!
MACB.――No matter――let me know it!
1_st_ WITCH.―― If it ease you But don’t blame me if what you hear don’t please you.
――――:o:――――
MAKING THE PUDDING. A Christmas Incantation.
1_st Witch._――Thrice have I the currants picked!
2_nd Witch._――Thrice; and I’ve the raisins stoned.
3_rd Witch._――Then to mix ’tis time, ’tis time.
1_st Witch._――Round about the pan then go, In the flour and bread crumbs throw; Salt and spice and suet add―― See the last named is not bad; And with all your might and main, Mix and stir and mix again!
All.――Hark! the pot begins to bubble We our labour must redouble.
2_nd Witch._――Plums and currants now we take, And the sugar in we shake; Candied peel and citron, too―― Get it fresh whate’er you do! And ere any item sticks Let us everything re-mix,
All.――Never mind a little trouble, Extra praise will pay us double.
3_rd Witch._――Now the eggs well beaten up Pour in gently from a cup; Add of milk a little drop, And from stirring do not stop Till the wooden spoon you pass Through a well commingled mass. Then when you can mix no more, Over all the brandy pour, None must idle then remain, Each in turn must mix again.
All.――True, it seems a lot of trouble Ere it in the pot can bubble!
1_st Witch._――Now the basins we prepare, Butter we each one with care, Then with pudding them we fill, And the cloth adjust with skill. See the water’s boiling hot, Ere we pop them in the pot, And not wishing them to spoil, For ten hours we’ll let them boil.
All.――Now they’re in, the water bubbles! Comes the end of all our troubles.
Enter Mistress of the House.
M. of H.――Well done, girls, I commend your pains, One more duty only remains, You must all join hands and sing Like elves and fairies in a ring; And what time your puddings boil Sing, and thus forget your toil. ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
THE MODERN MACBETH.
CHARACTERS. Mac Gladstone, Mrs. Mac Gladstone, Joe Mac Caucus.
SCENE.――The dining-room in Downing Street.
MAC GLAD.――Here now methinks our ministry were safe, Were the graced person of our Gordon here, Him do I challenge for his obstinacy In sticking at Khartoum.
JOE MAC C.―― His absence, sir, Is hard upon the Government. Please you, sir, To grace us with your everlasting speech.
MAC GLAD.――There is no seat.
MRS. MAC GLAD.―― Here is a place for you.
MAC GLAD.――Who has played me this trick?
JOE MAC C.―― What, Grand Old Man?
(Ghost of GORDON rises and sits in MAC GLADSTONE’S seat.)
MAC GLAD.――Thou can’st not say I did it; never shake Thy gory locks at me.
MRS. MAC GLAD.―― O my good lord! Read the Spectator and the Daily News, So you shall see your veritable self No murderer, but simply one who sent A hero to his death, so you might gain A fair majority; and now that’s done You look but on a corse.
MAC GLAD.―― Aye, there’s the rub; Blood I have shed ere now; blood must be shed If I am to keep office; murders, too Must be performed; but why does this man rise, With thousands freshly massacred around him, To push me from my place? The public curse Is worse than murder.
JOE MAC C.―― By these affidavits, So cheaply forged in famous Brummagem, The Caucus lacks you.
[Ghost disappears.
MAC GLAD.―― Oh, my perjured friends, I have a strange infirmity: I see Red spectres in the watches of the night, Brave men I sent to death; but that is nothing To those who vote for me! Here’s wine, fill high, I drink a health to all my Cabinet; And to our dear friend Gordon whom we miss: Would he were here! But yet methinks he saved The Franchise Bill, and eke the Government, A truly Christian scapegoat.
ALL.―― Gordon’s health.
[Ghost appears again.
MAC GLAD.――Avaunt, and quit my sight! the desert hide thee! I hoped the vultures would have ta’en thy bones; Thou hast appeals unanswered in thy hands, A dreadful diary.
MRS. MAC GLAD.――Think of this, good friends, As but a thing of custom, though ’tis hard To hear a nation’s curses on his head.
MAC GLAD.――What man dare, I dare; Approach thou like the hated Beaconsfield, The Salisbury, or trenchant Randolph Churchill, Take any shape than that, and my glib tongue Can argue thee away! Alive again, Thou pointest to the desert with thy sword, And trembling I behold thee! Hark, they call The Grand Old Murderer! Hence, deathless shadow Accusing victim hence!
(_Ghost disappears, and MAC GLADSTONE goes off to read the Lessons in Hawarden Church._) H. SAVILE CLARKE, 1885.
Shakespeare’s Recipe for Cooking a Beefsteak.
If when ’twere done ’twere well done, then ’twere well It were done quickly.
OTHELLO.
――――:o:――――
Othello.――Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace: For since these arms of mine had seven years pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration and what mighty magic, For such proceeding I am charged withal, I won his daughter. OTHELLO., Act I. Scene III.
――――:o:――――
THE STROLLING PLAYER’S APOLOGY.
Most potent, gay, irreverend signiors, My very noble and approv’d good fellows; That I have been a vagrant strolling player, It is most true; true, I have been a mummer; The very head and front of my profession, Hath this extent; no more. Loud am I in speech, And little bless’d with the smooth phrase of towns; For since these arms of mine had seven years pith, ’Till now some nine months wasted, they have us’d Their dearest action in the rafted barn; And little of the theatre can I speak, More than pertains to claps, and groans, and hisses; And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver, Of my whole course of life; what cork, what brick dust, What poverty, and what mighty shifts, (For such calamities I’ve met withal) Rank me with your honours. ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
KENEALY’S SPEECH TO THE SENATE.
Most potent, grave, and reverent seigniors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have pleaded long Sir Roger’s cause It is most true. True, I have muddled it; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech, And little blessed with the set Commons’ phrase; For since these hands of mine held Roger’s brief Till now by Stoke elected, they have used Their dearest action in that troubled field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to bearding judge and jury, And therefore shall I little grace my cause In speaking of myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will the round unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of pleading――“proofs of hair,” Of “love maternal”――“manners most refined” (With such were the proceedings charged withal), I told as records of the Claimant’s life; From year to year, with wrecks and butchering, Passed “under the broad canopy of heaven.” I ran it through even from his boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it; Therein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of Wagga-Wagga wandering to and fro, And his returning as the Rightful Heir. These things to hear The British public seriously inclined; And many a day did they with greedy ear Devour up my discourse: which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found the means To start a newspaper――The Englishman―― Where all this pilgrimage I could dilate, Whereof by parcels they had something heard; And oft did I beguile them of their pence, When I did speak of some distressful stroke Which his youth suffered. My story being done, The judge and jury heeded not my sighs; They said in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful; They wished they had not said it; yea they wished That they had never heard the Claimant’s name, And bade me, if I had a foe I hated, Go tell him the everlasting story, And then my client doomed to durance vile. Then rose the readers of The Englishman, And cried throughout the land with one accord, “Appeal to Parliament!” On that hint I spake―― They loved me for my notoriety, And I loved them since it did profit me―― Therefore unto this Senate I appeal, That my lost client should at once be free!
Funny Folks, May 8, 1875.
――――:o:――――
Iago’s high-sounding words about his reputation:――
“Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls; Who steals my purse steals trash――’tis something, nothing, ’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands: But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed!”
were once quoted (so Tom Ingoldsby tells us) by a country baronet at a general election. Perhaps his memory failed him, or perhaps he thought to “gild refined gold!” His version was:――
“Who steals my purse steals stuff! ’Twas mine――’tisn’t his――nor nobody else’s! But he who runs away with my GOOD NAME, Robs me of what does not do him any good, And makes me deuced poor!”
――――:o:――――
Othello.―― O, now, for ever Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And, O you mortal engines,, whose rude throats The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone! Act III. Scene III.
This favorite passage is cleverly imitated in George Colman’s Epilogue to Sheridan’s “School for Scandal.” Lady Teazle, who has decided to renounce Scandal, to live in peace with her husband, delivers the epilogue from which the following is an extract:――
“Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content! Farewell, the plumed head, the cushioned tête, That takes the cushion from its proper seat! That spirit-stirring drum[37]――card drums I mean, Spadille, odd trick, pam, basto, king and queen; And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat, The welcome visitor’s approach denote! Farewell, all quality of high renown, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town! Farewell, your revels I partake no more, And Lady Teazle’s occupation’s o’er!”
――――――――
THE UNDERTAKER’S FAREWELL.
O, now, for ever, Farewell the mourning coach! Farewell the scarf! Farewell the plumed hearse and the bad gloves, That make a funeral’s profit! O farewell! Farewell the sable steeds, and the black crape, The spirit-swilling mutes, the expensive pall, Pride, pomp, and vanity of gainful death: And you, ye undertakers, whose long bills The beak of snipe or woodcock counterfeit, Farewell! your knavish occupation’s gone.
Punch, December, 1849.
――――――――
O EVANS!
Middle-aged Man about Town loq.:――
Farewell the quiet chop! the kidneys poached! Farewell the grizzled bones and the mixed drinks, That made abstention virtue――O, farewell! Farewell the ready waiter, the vague bill, The nose-enlivening pinch, eye-winking smoke, The kindly hand-shake, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of PADDY GREEN! And O you ancient Basses, whose rude throats The immortal Jove’s dread clamour counterfeit, Farewell!――A fellow’s occupation’s gone!
Punch, November 1, 1879. Othello improved.
――――――――
SHAKESPEARE PACKING UP HIS GOODS.
“I had been happy, if the General Thumb, Barnum and all, had bought up the old house In which I ne’er was born. But now for ever Farewell the pencil’d wall! farewell the prints, Farewell the well-thumb’d book, and all the names That made its pages precious! Oh, farewell! And oh you silver shillings, whose bright face Our blessed Queen’s fair portrait counterfeits, Farewell! Poor Shakespeare’s sole support is gone!”
From The Man in the Moon, Vol. 2.
――――――――
SOLILOQUY OF THE MOOR OF COVENT GARDEN.
An address supposed to be delivered by Mr. John Philip Kemble, in the character of Othello, during the famous O. P. (old price) riots in Covent Garden Theatre, which commenced on September 18th, 1809. The public objected to the increased prices charged in the new theatre, and also to the additional number of small private boxes, which were intended to be let for the year. The riots continued until December 16th, when the old prices were restored.
I had been happy if th’ united House, Pit, galleries, and boxes,――all had paid Their money cheerily, and riot we had none. Oh! now for ever farewell ambition’s hope! Farewell applause! and side-long glances From the boxes, thro’ the sticks of fan, Or from behind the kerchief-veiled face. Farewell our golden hopes of swelling bags, And long account at banker’s. Farewell ye wanton toys of feather’d cupid In th’ anti-chambers of the private annuals! Hark! the loud twanging of the bugle-horn, Th’ ear-piercing whistle, and terrific bell, The plaguy placard, drum, and deafening rattle; The voice Stentorian, and the serpent’s hiss! Sibilant,――all, all awake me From dreams delusive of eternal triumph! And ye, ye catcalls, of infernal sound, Whose barbarous sounds might even split the ears Of Belzebub himself,――cease your horrific din, No more the valiant Dan, with host of Israel, Flank’d and supported by the Bow-street tribe Of myrmidons, and bruisers squaring in the pit;―― No more the phalanx dares to face the town. O’erwhelm’d by numbers and determin’d hate, No more the orders in the boxes now Support the managers,――but placards wave, And O. P.’s shine from every box! initials hateful; All, all, our efforts are in vain, and fate decides By the loud voice of the people,――irresistible, That prices be reduced, and privacies Thrown open.―― Farewell,――OTHELLO’S occupation’s gone!
The Covent Garden Journal, 1810.
――――:o:――――
The Royal Dramatic College Annual, for July, 1868, contains an imaginary dialogue between Othello (Lord Dundreary) and Iago (Mr. Buckstone), written by Mr. T. F. Dillon-Croker. It is very amusing, but it is not strictly a parody.
WILLIAM IV. AND REFORM.
When the great Reform Bill was thrown out by the Lords on May 7, 1832, the Ministry resigned, and the country was on the verge of Revolution. King William IV. who had hitherto been bitterly opposed to any Reforms, now induced the Ministers to resume office by reluctantly granting to Earl Grey full power to secure majorities, by the creation of new Peers. Henry, Lord Brougham, was then Lord Chancellor. The following parody appeared in Figaro in London, illustrated with portraits of the Puppet King (“Silly-Billy” he was styled), Earl Grey, and Lord Brougham.
THE ROYAL PUPPET.
“Here is a representation of a puppet, the movements of which are occasioned by certain strings, which are held in the hands of persons who amuse themselves by pulling first one and then the other according as it may serve their temporary purposes. The funny little figure wriggles about first to one side and then the other just as it strikes the whim of those in whose hands he happens to be, and he is forced when acted on by them to play whatever antics they may deem desirable. One jerk may make the little fellow extend his hand in an attitude of friendship, while the next moment he may be made grotesquely to throw up his foot, as if he would kick down the very thing to which he had the moment before offered his hand, and thus he wriggles about in every sense of the word, the mere puppet of those who possess the power to play upon him. Occasionally the funny little figure is made to take part in a scenic representation, and here we give to our readers a specimen of certain interesting
STATE THEATRICALS.
The subject is chosen from Shakespeare’s Othello, and the following is the cast of the principal characters.”
OTHELLO, by The Puppet.
IAGO, by Lord Brougham.
DESDEMONA, by Hibernia, the Sister Country.
It would be needless and somewhat tedious to print the whole of the well-known tragedy,――showing how Desdemona was wronged, and Othello degraded, by the cunning of Iago.
For Iago and Othello we shall for the sake of verisimilitude insert the names of their representatives, Brougham and the Puppet.
Brougham.――Look where he comes, not Ballot nor Church Reform, Nor e’en a Grant of Universal Suffrage, Shall ever give to thee that high respect Thou hadst but yesterday.
ENTER THE PUPPET.
Puppet.――Ha! ha! pelt at me? at me?
Brougham.――Why, how now, Governor? no more of that.
Puppet.――Avaunt! begone! thou’st set me on the rack, I swear, ’tis better to be much abused Than but to know’t a little.
Brougham.――How now, my lord.
Puppet.――What sense had I, the Bill[38] would raise such a dust, I saw it not――thought it not――it harm’d not me, I slept the next night well――was gay and merry, I heard no curses on the peoples’ lips: He that is damned, not hearing of the damning, Let him not know’t and he’s not damned at all.
Brougham.――I am sorry to hear this.
Puppet.――I had been happy, if the general camp Volunteers and all had slaughtered every body, So I had nothing known! O now for ever Farewell the people’s love――farewell applause, Farewell the loud “hurrah” and big “huzzas” That made my rides so pleasant, O farewell! Farewell the wave of hats, and the shrill “bravo,” The kerchief-shaking, and all quality Bows, shouts――the glorious products of Reform. And O! ye papers! engines, whose anathemas Th’ immortal Figaro’s dread cuts counterfeit, Farewell! poor Billy’s occupation’s gone.
Brougham.――Is it possible, my lord?
Puppet.――(Going fiercely to him)――Villain! be sure you Prove the Bill was wanted, Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof, (Seizing him by the throat.) Or by the worth of mine illustrious crown, Thou had’st better have been born a dog――a dog, Brougham, Than answer my waked wrath.
Brougham.――Is it come to this?
Puppet.――If thou dost wrong poor Erin and humbug me, Never speak more――abandon all debate―― On taxes, head taxes accumulate, Pass Bills to make Whigs weep, Tories amazed, For nothing can’st thou to damnation add Greater than that.
Brougham.――O Place! O heaven defend me, Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense? Eldon be with you; take mine office――O wretched fool That liv’st to make thy Whiggery a vice; To be directly Whiggish is not safe. I thank you for this profit――and from hence I’ll be no Whig――since Whigs give such offence. (Going.)
Puppet.――Nay, stay, I think the Bill is needed and think it’s not, I think the Whigs are right, yet think they’re not. Would I were satisfied.
Brougham.――How satisfied, my lord, Would you the supervisor, go yourself to Erin, And see her people.
Puppet.――Death and damnation! no!
Brougham.――It were a tedious bore, I think To take an actual prospect: damn them, then.
Puppet.――I’ll tear ’em all to pieces.
Brougham.――Nay, but be wise, tell me but this――
Puppet.――Oh, that the slaves had forty-thousand lives, One each is far too poor for my revenge. Now do I see ’tis time, look here, Brougham, All my reforming thus I blow to heaven, ’Tis gone―― Assist, black Tories, the blood-thirsty bill, Yield up, O Whigs, thy former popularity To hateful tyranny.
Brougham.――Pray be content.
Puppet.――Blood, Brougham, blood.
Brougham.――Patience, I say; our minds perhaps may change.
Puppet.――Never. Brougham, By yonder civil list I here engage my words. (Kneels.)
Brougham.――Do not rise yet: Witness you ever-turning Whigs above, You Tories too, still rolling round about, Witness, that here, Brougham doth give up The execution of his wit, hand, heart, To worthy William’s service! let him command, And to obey shall be in me remorse, What bloody work soe’er.
Puppet.――I greet thy love, not with vain thanks, But with acceptance bounteous, Within these three months let me hear thee say O’Connell’s not at large.
Brougham.――Daniel’s in quod, ’Tis done at your desire.
Puppet.――Now art thou quite my Chancellor.
Brougham.――I am thine own for ever. Exeunt.
――――:o:――――
A SCENE FROM OTHELLO.
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS.
Othello (on this occasion) by Mr. Punch.
The Lamp (one of the lights of the age) by Lord John Russell.
Enter OTHELLO (PUNCH) taking the LAMP (LORD JOHN RUSSELL) in his hand.
It is the cause, by JOVE, it is the cause; Let me not name it to you, ye wild Rads. It is the cause. Put out LORD JOHN and then put in BOB PEEL. Yet I’ll not oust the Whigs, Nor force the really able ones to go: I’d rather aid them with some sticking plaster. Yet he must out――or he’ll betray more men. Put out LORD JOHN and then――put out the Whigs! If I extinguish thee, thou flaming minister, I can thy former place restore, should it repent me; But once put out the Whigs, I know not where That party is their places can supply.
Othello (PUNCH) sits down in a desponding attitude, and looking at the Lamp (LORD JOHN RUSSELL) he naturally falls asleep.
Punch, July 22, 1848.
――――:o:――――
A SCENE FROM “OTHELLO.” (Adapted to Recent Events).
Iago (a critic). How now, dear sir?
[39]Othello (musing). What sense had I to be thus madly thrust Forth as Salvini’s rival? Though his Moor Was grand and passionate, it harmed not me. I slept the next night well, was free and merry; The public hailed me still the coming man. He that is robbed, not wanting what is stol’n, Let him not know’t and he’s not robbed at all.
Iago. I am sorry to hear this.
Othello. I had been happy if a crowded house, Critics and all, had seen me in the Bells, Or Hamlet――but the Moor! O, now for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell the ringing cheer, the loud “brayvo” That echoed from Olympus! O, farewell To the young “gusher” of the Semaphore, Who oft such “civil service” did to me; To the loud Thunderer――to the shrilly trump Of the stern Tiser, and the Echo’s fife, The Royal Standard, and all quality. Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious Puff! And O, you mortal scribblers, whose swift pens The drama’s “palmy days” did counterfeit, Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!
Iago. Is it possible? But, sir――――
Othello. Villain, be sure you prove me not the Moor. Or, by the worth of my Shakespearian fame, Thou hadst been better――better born a dog Than answer my waked wrath.
Iago. Is it come to this?
Othello. Make me to see ’t, or at the least so prove it That the probation bear no hinge nor loop To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!
Iago. My dear, good sir――――
Othello. If thou dost quiz my Moor and mimic me, Never write more; abandon all remorse, On horror’s head horrors accumulate, Do deeds to make your editor amazed, For nothing canst thou to damnation add Greater than this.
Iago. O grace! O heaven defend me!
Othello. I think that thou are just and think thou art not I’ll have some proof. My fame, that was as fresh As Dian’s visage, cannot be grimed and black As mine own face! I’ll not believe it. Would I were satisfied!
Funny Folks.
――――:o:――――
“Othello Travestie, an operatic Burlesque Burletta,” by Maurice G. Dowling, Esq., was first produced at the Liver Theatre, Liverpool, March, 1834, and was afterwards performed at the Strand Theatre, London.
This now reads as a very dull and stupid burlesque, in which the only approach at fun is obtained from causing Othello to speak, and act, like a negro melodist. The songs introduced are mostly founded on the Ethiopian melodies then popular, and there are no passages, of any merit, parodying the original tragedy.
This burlesque can still be obtained from Mr. Samuel French, 89, Strand, London.
There was a much earlier “Othello Travestie,” published in 1813, of which details are wanting.
――――:o:――――
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE, Act IV. Scene 1.
This song also occurs in Act V. Scene 2, of Beaumont and Fletcher’s Bloody Brother, with the following additional stanza:――
Hide, O, hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears! But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.
――――:o:――――
Take, O, take that bill away, That, alas! long since was due! Call again some other day, When the trees do bud anew―― Maybe, dimly distant spring Some financial change will bring.
――――:o:――――
HIGH GAME.
Take, oh! take the haunch away Which all sweetness hath forsworn; Never was more cruel day, Close and muggy was the morn. To stop my nose, alas! is vain; John, bring the salmon up again.
Hide that fat, more white than snow, Which the ven’son’s bosom bears; To the haunch mine eyes will grow, Such a tempting form it wears; If my tongue from taste were free, Many a slice I’d eat of thee.
Rhapsodies, by W. H. Ireland, 1803.
――――:o:――――
In 1879 a Mr. Tracy Turnerelli acquired a certain notoriety in consequence of having organized a subscription to purchase a golden laurel wreath to be presented to Lord Beaconsfield. The subscription was entitled “The People’s Tribute,” and 52800 pennies were collected, the wreath was made and publicly exhibited, when, to the great disgust of Mr. Tracy Turnerelli, the Prime Minister declined the gift. Lord Beaconsfield’s reasons were given in the following letter, which cleverly exposes the self-seeking motives of the organiser of this “Tribute”:――
“10, Downing-street, Whitehall, June 16, 1879.――Sir,――Lord Beaconsfield desires me to inform you that he has received and carefully considered your letter of the 8th inst., in which you ask him to name a day for the presentation of a laurel wreath procured by the contributions of upwards of 50,000 of the people, which have been collected, according to your statement, with ‘immense labour and never-yet-exampled efforts.’ His lordship has, moreover, had before him the correspondence which during the last five years you have addressed to him, and he notices especially your complaints that your services have received no recognition at the hands of the leaders of the Conservative party, and the expression of your hope that ‘sooner or later they will meet with reward.’ Although Lord Beaconsfield would fully appreciate and value a spontaneous gift from his fellow-subjects belonging to a class in which he has ever taken the warmest interest, he cannot but feel that, being himself intimately connected with honours and rewards, he is precluded by the spirit in which you have previously addressed him from accepting a gift thus originated, and proffered in a manner which he cannot deem satisfactory.――I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, ALGERNON TURNOR.
Tracy Turnerelli, Esq.”
The golden wreath was publicly exhibited at the Crystal Palace, and afterwards at Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition.
――――:o:――――
“THE WREATH.”
Take, oh take that wreath away, Which so many pennies cost, On which labour “ne’er-to-be―― Calculated” has been lost: But true honour bring again;―― “Peace with honour” is in vain.
Send, oh send those pennies back To the fools who sent them you: They will all their pennies lack When their income tax is due. Though you’ve cozened such a mass, Turnerelli, you’re an ass.
Bits of Beaconsfield, a New Series of Disraeli’s Curiosities of Literature, (Abel Heywood & Son, Manchester.)
――――――――
To which Turnerelli is supposed to have replied in the following parody of Ben Jonson:
THE WREATH. (After an old model).
I bought thee late a golden wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving me a hope that I Thy pensioner might be. But thou thereat didst only sneer, And wouldst have none of me; Since when I hate the thing, I swear, Not for itself, but thee.
Funny Folks, July, 1879.
――――――――
THE WREATH REFUSED.
Take, oh take that wreath away, Though it shine as bright as morn, Never shall the Lib’rals say, I am open to their scorn; And though you may come again, You will always come in vain.
Hide, oh hide that saucy head, Which your portly body bears; Had you only brought instead Something which a noble wears, As they give to Gladstone now, You would then have saved this row.
True, oh true I should have nipped This mad scheme when it began; But I did not think your gift Would be chaffed by every man. And, alas, my Honoured Peace, Does no longer gull the geese!
Beaconsfield the Immaculate. (F. E. Longley, London, 1880.)
――――:o:――――
ERIN’S APPEAL TO BRITANNIA.
Take, O, take Parnell away, Though so loudly he hath sworn; God forgive me if I say, Would he never had been born; And if thou canst take another, Take his sister;――take his mother!
Take from poor unhappy maid All the “friends” that prey upon her; Keep the lot that hasn’t stayed―― Prudent Egan and O’Connor; And if short of patriot vigour, Try O’Sullivan;――try Biggar! ANONYMOUS. Grins and Groans, 1882.
RICHARD THE THIRD.
Act I, Scene I — London. A street.
Enter RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, solus.
Glou. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks; Nor made to court an amorous looking glass; I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them; Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant upon mine own deformity: And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other: And if King Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false and treacherous, This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up, About a prophecy, which says that G Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.
This speech was chosen as the original for a parody competition in The World, in September, 1879, the subject to be treated being “The Return of Lord Chelmsford and other officers from Zululand.”
FIRST PRIZE.
LORD C. loq. Now is the night of our despondency Illumined with the star of victory; And all the gloom that hung on Afric’s coast Lost in the glory of Ulundi’s fame. Now are our battered arms with laurels crowned; Our stern defences turned to swift pursuit; Our laagered outposts into merry camps. Now may the mounted staff in bright array―― Where lurks no more the dangerous ambuscade―― Pursue the track of frightened fugitives, Cantering as gaily, as on Rotten Row With amorous glance when Phryne tempts pursuit. But I, that care not for these showy tricks, To make sensation pictures for the press; I, that am plain of speech, and lack the grace Of smooth reporters to exaggerate The lame conclusion and unfinished aim Of a safe skirmish with some half-armed tribes Into the conduct of a mighty war, So that the farce makes laughter for the clubs,―― Why I, who bore the burden of the fight, Can smile to see his swaggering airs, Who would make me the shadow to his sun, And boast his strength in my infirmity. Since, then, I cannot turn a sycophant To woo the loud-mouthed plaudits of the mob, I scorn the changing fancies of these days, And wait the verdict of impartial fame. Plain can I see the drift of Wolseley’s plots: By false deductions and imputed blame To make our victories all imperfect seem, Our troops superfluous, and his skill supreme. No matter! For our Queen, as true and just As meaner minds are vain and envious, This day hath bid me to her gracious court; And our Queen’s smile――no prophet needs to say―― Is the sure prelude of a nations praise.
OLD LOG.
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SECOND PRIZE.
SCENE: _Zululand, the Bush. Enter CETEWAYO, with an English newspaper._
CET. Now are the grumblings of their discontent Turned all too strangely into blatant talk; And all the angry questionings in their House In the deep mockery of sham welcomes buried. Now are some brows bound with victorious wreaths, Their late misdeeds held up for monuments, Their vacillations changed to themes for greetings, Their rearward marches to prudential measures. Grim-visaged warriors seam their laughing fronts To see how he who breathless urged his steed, Frightened to death of Zulu adversaries, Now poses blandly in the festive chamber, And speaks, when better taste should make him mute. But I, that know not much of party tricks, Nor how defeats seem through their looking-glass; I, that have rudely stamped upon their majesty, Nor failed to chase them oft from veld and drift; I, though curtailed of all my realm’s proportions, Cheated of fealty by their politic measures, Dethroned, diminished, sent in double time Into this uttermost bush, with peace made up So lamely and of such apparent patchwork That men laugh at it as I talk to them,―― Why I, in this weak parody on peace, Should scorn like these to pass away the time, Mistaking much the shadow for the sun, And braying forth their own deformity; And therefore――though I cannot fall much lower In all things needful in these latter days―― I envy not the braggartdom of Britain, And hate the rampant rubbish of her ways, As shown me in this paper――dangerous And morbid prophecies, libels, and schemes To set my brother chiefs against their king, In deadly hate the one against the other. And if Cetewayo views the future just Of these same English, false and treacherous―― If ‘penny dreadfuls’ be not close mew’d up―― This is his prophecy: _That they and G. Of England’s fame the murderers shall be_. Brim up, thoughts o’er my soul! my time yet comes. LINDENFELD. The World, September 10, 1879.
――――:o:――――
“Kinge Richard ye Third, or ye Battel of Bosworth Field; a merry mysterie,” in one act, by Charles Selby, was produced at the Strand Theatre, on February 26, 1844. This burlesque can be obtained from Mr. Samuel French, 89, Strand, London.
A much more ambitious burlesque of the same tragedy was produced at the New Royalty Theatre, Soho, during the management of Miss Oliver, on September 24, 1868. This was written by F. C. Burnand, and was entitled “The Rise and Fall of Richard III; or a new Front to an old Dicky.”
The cast was as follows:――
Duke of Gloster, afterwards, in Scene 2, Richard the Third (a character drawn, from the ideal of a Richardsonian playwright and a Colley-Cibber-wright). He is a humpbacked, knocknee’d, generally hideous; altogether a ‘beautiful part’ played by Mr. DEWAR.
Henry, Earl of Richmond (original Proprietor of the Star and Garter). Henry Richmond “passed the best years of his life in Brittany, and was more of a Frenchman than an Englishman” Miss CHARLOTTE SAUNDERS.
Lord Stanley (Richmond’s stepfather devoted to his cause unless Richard wins the day) Mr. RUSSELL.
The Duke of Buckingham (Richard’s friend and then his enemy) Miss ANNIE COLLINSON.
Sir John Catesby, or Cats-by (Richard’s ally) Miss NELLIE BROMLEY.
Tyrrel (a descendant of the gentleman who killed William Rufus). An hereditary villain. Richard’s “creature” Mr. DAY.
The Lord Mayor of London Mr. KENWARD.
The Recorder, by the gentleman who wrote the celebrated history, i.e. Mr. COBBETT.
The Mace Mr. CHARLES.
Pages of History By LADIES of the BALLET.
Duchess of York (mother of Richard the Third) Mr. DANVERS.
Lady Anne Miss THOMPSON. and Princess Elizabeth (betrothed to Richmond) Miss M. OLIVER.
There have been several other burlesques of this tragedy; Richard III. Travestie, with annotations, by William By, 1816; Richard III. Travestie, 1823; and Richard III. burlesqued, by J. Sterling Coyne, 1844.
KING HENRY VIII.
Cardinal Wolsey Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new open’d. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Act III., Sc. II.
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LAMENT OF THE EMINENT ONE.
Henry Irving Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is mistaken man: to night he puts forth The jingling Bells; then Charles; then the mad Dane, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: Then comes a sudden frost, a fearful frost; And,――when he thinks, good easy man full surely His eminence is admitted――stops his flight And down, kerslap! he tumbles! I have fancied, L ike frogs puffed up with pride, myself an ox; And grew so swollen with my own vain-glory, That I was doomed to burst. My fragments fell Upon that new laid stage expressly built, [40]By Mrs. B., to bear me stiffly up. Thus I am left a prey For some rude knaves that will for weeks yet hide me. Remorseless scribblers of the press, I hate ye! I feel ye at my throat,――yet there is one―― One silver-haired old man who swears by me, Who comforts me be Times with lines of praise, And says ’tis quite O. K. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on critics’ favors: There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet incense of printer’s ink, and blame, More pangs and fears than wars or women have. No matter! He proclaims me eminent, And in his burning words no trace of slate―― Thus may I hope again.
The Figaro, October 2, 1875.
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MR. GLADSTONE AND HIS OLD CHINA.
The following, which purports to be a meditation of our junior member for Greenwich on his past career, called forth by the recent sale of his Pictures and Old China, was according to the Morning Advertiser, picked up in the sale room at Christie’s, at the close of Mr. Gladstone’s sale on Saturday last. Our spirited contemporary admits that the only evidence as to its authorship is internal, and is inclined to think it by no means reliable, but this is a matter respecting which all who read it are at liberty to form their own opinion:――
“Farewell, a long farewell to all my teapots; My tazzas, plaques, medallions, dishes, cups; For all are gone――no shred remains behind. This is the way with man. To-day he buys The choice, cracked specimens of divers wares; Collects with ardour Dresden, Chelsea, Bow, And ransacks town for Derby and Berlin; With taste eclectic, if not critical, Fills all his rooms. To-morrow, hugs his store, And swears that not one vase, one plate shall go. The third day comes, and straightway in The Times Doth Christie set forth in advertisement The details of that once-loved china store, And sells by public auction every piece. This is the fashion――I have followed it, My china, like my former fame, is gone; I have outlived my greatness and my ware; My Wedgwood and my power alike have passed. The thought is very bitter. Oh how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on people’s favor! Two years ago I was the ‘People’s William,’ My name a power at Greenwich and elsewhere. The Churches trembled, and the Income Tax Shook lest its last twopenny pieces went. I was Dictator then.” * * * * * * * The Kentish Mercury, July 3, 1875.
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College Rhymes (Oxford) contains a long parody of this scene from Henry VIII. See p. 178, vol. 14.
JULIUS CÆSAR.
Brutus.――Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love to Cæsar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer:――Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all free men? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. ACT iii. SCENE ii.
A POACHING ACTOR.
A poor itinerant player, caught performing the part of a poacher, and being taken before the magistrates assembled at a quarter sessions for examination, one of them asked him what right he had to kill a hare? when he replied in the following parody on Brutus’ speech to the Romans in defence of the death of Cæsar:――
“Britons, hungrymen, and epicures! hear me for my cause; and be silent――that you may hear; believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of this hare, to him I say, that a player’s love for hare is no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why a player rose against a hare, this is my answer――not that I loved hare less, but that I loved eating more. Had you rather this hare were living, and I had died starving――than that this hare were dead, that I might live a jolly fellow? As this hare was pretty, I weep for him; as he was nimble, I rejoice at it; as he was plump, I honour him; but, as he was eatable, I slew him. There are tears for his beauty; honour for his condition; joy for his speed; and death for his toothsomeness. Who is here so cruel would see a starved man? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so silly that would not take a tit-bit? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so sleek that does not love his belly? If any, speak, for him have I offended.”
“You have offended justice, sirrah,” cried one of the magistrates, out of all patience at this long and strange harangue.
“Then,” cried the culprit, guessing at the hungry feelings of the bench, “since justice is dissatisfied, it must needs have something to devour; heaven forbid I should keep any gentleman from his dinner――so, if you please, I’ll wish your worships a good day, and a good appetite.”
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Marc Antony.―― Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Cæsar answer’d it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest―― For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men―― Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him? O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart is in the Coffin there with Cæsar, And I must pause till it come back to me. Act III., Sc. II. ――――:o:――――
This oration was recently selected as the original for a parody competition in The Weekly Dispatch, the subject treated being the political situation on the resignation of Mr. Gladstone.
The Prize was awarded to Mr. T. Alderson Wilson, 3, Church Terrace, Queen’s Road, South Lambeth, S.W., for the following:――
SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT (LOQ.);
Whigs, Lib’rals, Radicals, lend me your ears; I cannot speak of Gladstone and not praise him, The work that statesmen do lives after them, Though it is oft imperilled by their fall. So will it be with Gladstone. The noble marquis Hath told you Gladstone was ambitious. If it were so, now by the late default Of his supporters he hath answered it. Here, under leave of Cecil and the rest (For Cecil is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men), Come I to speak on Gladstone’s overthrow. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Cecil says he was ambitious; And Cecil is an honourable man. He hath brought many markets to our trade, Whose commerce doth the general coffers fill. Did this in Gladstone seem ambitious? When “Tax the Corn!” they cried, Gladstone hath kept Taxation from the tables of the poor, Yet Cecil says he was ambitious; And Cecil is an honourable man. You all did see that in her audience-room The Queen did offer him a coronet, The which he did refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Cecil says he was ambitious; And Cecil is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Cecil spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did rally round him and his cause, What cause withholds you now to vote for him? O Judgment, thou hast passed from Radicals, And Whigs have lost their reason! Bear with me; My heart is on the benches Ministerial, And I must sigh till I get back to them!
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The following were highly commended:――
JOHN BRIGHT (LOQ.):
Friends, Britons, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to speak of Gladstone, not to praise him. The evil that men do is loudly bruited; The good should live to answer in their praise. So let it be with Gladstone. The noble Churchill Hath told you Gladstone is disloyal: If he be so, it is a grievous fault, And grievously shall Gladstone answer it. Here under leave of Churchill and the rest (For Churchill is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men), Come I to speak of Gladstone my free mind. He is my friend, faithful and just to me: But Churchill says he is disloyal; And Churchill is an honourable man. He hath in many a Budget swept away The taxes that oppressed your daily wants. Did this in Gladstone seem disloyal? When that the poor were dumb he gave them voice―― Disloyalty’s not made of trustful stuff: Yet Churchill says he is disloyal; And Churchill is an honourable man. You all do know that when he sought repose You, trumpet-tongued, did call him from his rest To remedy your wrongs. Was this disloyal? Yet Churchill says he is disloyal; And sure, he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Churchill spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once――not without cause; What cause withholds you, then, to vote for him? O Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart’s in Opposition there with Gladstone, And I must pause till it come back to me. H. L. BRICKEL.
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Friends, voters, countrymen, lend me your ears; ’Tis yours to judge of Gladstone, not to jeer him. The evil statesmen do, lives after them, The good is oft forgotten when they go. So let it be with Gladstone. The noble Churchill Hath told you Gladstone was a traitor: If he were so, his was a grievous fault, And at the polls will Gladstone answer it. Here, begging leave of Randolph and the rest (For Randolph is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men), Come I to speak of Gladstone’s recent deeds. He was our friend, faithful and just to us: But Churchill says he was a traitor; And Churchill is an honourable man. He hath to twice a million given votes, Who, ransomed, now the land with gladness fill. Did this in Gladstone seem as trait’rous? When that the Irish groaned, Gladstone hath risked His reputation to remove their woes: Yet Churchill says he was a traitor; And Churchill is an honourable man. You all did see that ere he office left The Queen presented him a fossil’s crown, Which humbly he refused. Perhaps this was trait’rous? For Churchill says he was a traitor; And sure the bauble he’d have grasped himself. I speak not to disprove what Churchill spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause, What cause withholds you all to love him now? O Office, thou art gone to Brag and Bung! But voters still have reason. And this mark―― Their hearts are in the good cause, and with Gladstone; And he will work till reeling Jingo’s crushed. GEORGE MALLINSON. The Weekly Dispatch, June 28, 1885.
CYMBELINE.
SONG.
Guiderius. Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task has done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Arviragus. Fear no more, the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Guiderius. Fear no more the lightning flash.
Arviragus. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Guiderius. Fear not slander, censure rash;
Arviragus. Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
Guiderius. No exorciser harm thee!
Arviragus. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Guiderius. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Arviragus. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave! Act IV. Scene II.
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TO L. P. ON TAKING HIS DEGREE.
Fear no more the voice of the don, Nor the oft-cut tutor’s rages, Thou thy Oxford course hast run, And art numbered with the sages. All Oxford men, its my belief, Must graduate or come to grief.
Fear no more the snarl of the sub[41], Thou art past that tyrant’s stroke. No more buttery beer, and grub, No more rows with sported oak! Even X.―――― himself, its my belief, Must graduate or come to grief!
Fear no more the bull-dog’s dash, Nor pursuing proctor’s tone. Fear not rustication rash, Thou art now a graduate grown! All we, like thee, its my belief, Must do the same or come to grief! No dun’s accountant harm thee! No ugly woman charm thee! Tick unpaid forbear thee! Never bill come near thee! Prosper, flourish, gain renown, Ere you take the master’s gown!
Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A. (London, J. C. Hotten, 1872).
AS YOU LIKE IT.