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.

                              ――――――――

                           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._

                              ――――――――

                     LAMENT OF THE EMINENT ONE.

  _Henry Irving_
     Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
     This is mistaken man: to night he puts forth
     The jingling Bells; then Charles; then the mad Dane,
     And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
     Then comes a sudden frost, a fearful frost;
     And,――when he thinks, good easy man full surely
     His eminence is admitted――stops his flight
     And down, kerslap! he tumbles! I have fancied,
  L   ike frogs puffed up with pride, myself an ox;
     And grew so swollen with my own vain-glory,
     That I was doomed to burst. My fragments fell
     Upon that new laid stage expressly built,
     [40]By Mrs. B., to bear me stiffly up.
                                        Thus I am left a prey
     For some rude knaves that will for weeks yet hide me.
     Remorseless scribblers of the press, I hate ye!
     I feel ye at my throat,――yet there is one――
     One silver-haired old man who swears by me,
     Who comforts me be _Times_ with lines of praise,
     And says ’tis quite O. K. O, how wretched
     Is that poor man that hangs on critics’ favors:
     There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
     That sweet incense of printer’s ink, and blame,
     More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
     No matter! _He_ proclaims me eminent,
     And in his burning words no trace of slate――
     Thus may I hope again.

_The Figaro_, October 2, 1875.

                              ――――――――

                  MR. GLADSTONE AND HIS OLD CHINA.

The following, which purports to be a meditation of our junior member
for Greenwich on his past career, called forth by the recent sale of
his Pictures and Old China, was according to the _Morning Advertiser_,
picked up in the sale room at Christie’s, at the close of Mr.
Gladstone’s sale on Saturday last. Our spirited contemporary admits
that the only evidence as to its authorship is internal, and is
inclined to think it by no means reliable, but this is a matter
respecting which all who read it are at liberty to form their own
opinion:――

  “Farewell, a long farewell to all my teapots;
  My tazzas, plaques, medallions, dishes, cups;
  For all are gone――no shred remains behind.
  This is the way with man. To-day he buys
  The choice, cracked specimens of divers wares;
  Collects with ardour Dresden, Chelsea, Bow,
  And ransacks town for Derby and Berlin;
  With taste eclectic, if not critical,
  Fills all his rooms. To-morrow, hugs his store,
  And swears that not one vase, one plate shall go.
  The third day comes, and straightway in _The Times_
  Doth Christie set forth in advertisement
  The details of that once-loved china store,
  And sells by public auction every piece.
  This is the fashion――I have followed it,
  My china, like my former fame, is gone;
  I have outlived my greatness and my ware;
  My Wedgwood and my power alike have passed.
  The thought is very bitter. Oh how wretched
  Is that poor man that hangs on people’s favor!
  Two years ago I was the ‘People’s William,’
  My name a power at Greenwich and elsewhere.
  The Churches trembled, and the Income Tax
  Shook lest its last twopenny pieces went.
  I was Dictator then.” *     *
_The Kentish Mercury_, July 3, 1875.

                              ――――――――

_College Rhymes_ (Oxford) contains a long parody of this scene from
Henry VIII. See p. 178, vol. 14.

                           JULIUS CÆSAR.

  _Brutus._――Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause,
          and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine
          honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may
          believe: censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses,
          that you may the better judge. If there be any in this
          assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar’s, to him I say that
          Brutus’ love to Cæsar was no less than his. If then that
          friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my
          answer:――Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome
          more. Had you rather Cæsar were living and die all slaves,
          than that Cæsar were dead, to live all free men? As Cæsar
          loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at
          it; as he was valiant I honour him; but, as he was
          ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for
          his fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his
          ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If
          any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude
          that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I
          offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his
          country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for
          a reply.
                                                ACT iii. SCENE ii.

                         A POACHING ACTOR.

A poor itinerant player, caught performing the part of a poacher, and
being taken before the magistrates assembled at a quarter sessions for
examination, one of them asked him what right he had to kill a hare?
when he replied in the following parody on Brutus’ speech to the
Romans in defence of the death of Cæsar:――

     “Britons, hungrymen, and epicures! hear me for my cause; and
     be silent――that you may hear; believe me for mine honour,
     and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe:
     censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses that you
     may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any
     dear friend of this hare, to him I say, that a player’s love
     for hare is no less than his. If, then, that friend demand
     why a player rose against a hare, this is my answer――not
     that I loved hare less, but that I loved eating more. Had
     you rather this hare were living, and I had died
     starving――than that this hare were dead, that I might live a
     jolly fellow? As this hare was pretty, I weep for him; as he
     was nimble, I rejoice at it; as he was plump, I honour him;
     but, as he was eatable, I slew him. There are tears for his
     beauty; honour for his condition; joy for his speed; and
     death for his toothsomeness. Who is here so cruel would see
     a starved man? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who
     is here so silly that would not take a tit-bit? If any,
     speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so sleek that
     does not love his belly? If any, speak, for him have I
     offended.”

     “You have offended justice, sirrah,” cried one of the
     magistrates, out of all patience at this long and strange
     harangue.

     “Then,” cried the culprit, guessing at the hungry feelings
     of the bench, “since justice is dissatisfied, it must needs
     have something to devour; heaven forbid I should keep any
     gentleman from his dinner――so, if you please, I’ll wish your
     worships a good day, and a good appetite.”

                            ――――:o:――――

  _Marc Antony._――
     Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
     I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
     The evil that men do lives after them;
     The good is oft interred with their bones;
     So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
     Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:
     If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
     And grievously hath Cæsar answer’d it.
     Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest――
     For Brutus is an honourable man;
     So are they all, all honourable men――
     Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.
     He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
     But Brutus says he was ambitious;
     And Brutus is an honourable man.
     He hath brought many captives home to Rome
     Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
     Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?
     When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:
     Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
     Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
     And Brutus is an honourable man.
     You all did see that on the Lupercal
     I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
     Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
     Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
     And, sure, he is an honourable man.
     I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
     But here I am to speak what I do know.
     You all did love him once, not without cause:
     What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
     O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
     And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
     My heart is in the Coffin there with Cæsar,
     And I must pause till it come back to me.
                                               _Act III., Sc. II._
                            ――――:o:――――

This oration was recently selected as the original for a parody
competition in _The Weekly Dispatch_, the subject treated being the
political situation on the resignation of Mr. Gladstone.

The Prize was awarded to Mr. T. Alderson Wilson, 3, Church Terrace,
Queen’s Road, South Lambeth, S.W., for the following:――

                    SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT (LOQ.);

  Whigs, Lib’rals, Radicals, lend me your ears;
  I cannot speak of Gladstone and not praise him,
  The work that statesmen do lives after them,
  Though it is oft imperilled by their fall.
  So will it be with Gladstone. The noble marquis
  Hath told you Gladstone was ambitious.
  If it were so, now by the late default
  Of his supporters he hath answered it.
  Here, under leave of Cecil and the rest
  (For Cecil is an honourable man;
  So are they all, all honourable men),
  Come I to speak on Gladstone’s overthrow.
  He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
  But Cecil says he was ambitious;
  And Cecil is an honourable man.
  He hath brought many markets to our trade,
  Whose commerce doth the general coffers fill.
  Did this in Gladstone seem ambitious?
  When “Tax the Corn!” they cried, Gladstone hath kept
  Taxation from the tables of the poor,
  Yet Cecil says he was ambitious;
  And Cecil is an honourable man.
  You all did see that in her audience-room
  The Queen did offer him a coronet,
  The which he did refuse. Was this ambition?
  Yet Cecil says he was ambitious;
  And Cecil is an honourable man.
  I speak not to disprove what Cecil spoke,
  But here I am to speak what I do know.
  You all did rally round him and his cause,
  What cause withholds you now to vote for him?
  O Judgment, thou hast passed from Radicals,
  And Whigs have lost their reason! Bear with me;
  My heart is on the benches Ministerial,
  And I must sigh till I get back to them!

                              ――――――――

The following were highly commended:――

                        JOHN BRIGHT (LOQ.):

  Friends, Britons, countrymen, lend me your ears;
  I come to speak of Gladstone, not to praise him.
  The evil that men do is loudly bruited;
  The good should live to answer in their praise.
  So let it be with Gladstone. The noble Churchill
  Hath told you Gladstone is disloyal:
  If he be so, it is a grievous fault,
  And grievously shall Gladstone answer it.
  Here under leave of Churchill and the rest
  (For Churchill is an honourable man;
  So are they all, all honourable men),
  Come I to speak of Gladstone my free mind.
  He is my friend, faithful and just to me:
  But Churchill says he is disloyal;
  And Churchill is an honourable man.
  He hath in many a Budget swept away
  The taxes that oppressed your daily wants.
  Did this in Gladstone seem disloyal?
  When that the poor were dumb he gave them voice――
  Disloyalty’s not made of trustful stuff:
  Yet Churchill says he is disloyal;
  And Churchill is an honourable man.
  You all do know that when he sought repose
  You, trumpet-tongued, did call him from his rest
  To remedy your wrongs. Was this disloyal?
  Yet Churchill says he is disloyal;
  And sure, he is an honourable man.
  I speak not to disprove what Churchill spoke,
  But here I am to speak what I do know.
  You all did love him once――not without cause;
  What cause withholds you, then, to vote for him?
  O Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
  And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
  My heart’s in Opposition there with Gladstone,
  And I must pause till it come back to me.
                                             H. L. BRICKEL.

                              ――――――――

  Friends, voters, countrymen, lend me your ears;
  ’Tis yours to judge of Gladstone, not to jeer him.
  The evil statesmen do, lives after them,
  The good is oft forgotten when they go.
  So let it be with Gladstone. The noble Churchill
  Hath told you Gladstone was a traitor:
  If he were so, his was a grievous fault,
  And at the polls will Gladstone answer it.
  Here, begging leave of Randolph and the rest
  (For Randolph is an honourable man;
  So are they all, all honourable men),
  Come I to speak of Gladstone’s recent deeds.
  He was our friend, faithful and just to us:
  But Churchill says he was a traitor;
  And Churchill is an honourable man.
  He hath to twice a million given votes,
  Who, ransomed, now the land with gladness fill.
  Did this in Gladstone seem as trait’rous?
  When that the Irish groaned, Gladstone hath risked
  His reputation to remove their woes:
  Yet Churchill says he was a traitor;
  And Churchill is an honourable man.
  You all did see that ere he office left
  The Queen presented him a fossil’s crown,
  Which humbly he refused. Perhaps this was trait’rous?
  For Churchill says he was a traitor;
  And sure the bauble he’d have grasped himself.
  I speak not to disprove what Churchill spoke,
  But here I am to speak what I do know.
  You all did love him once, not without cause,
  What cause withholds you all to love him now?
  O Office, thou art gone to Brag and Bung!
  But voters still have reason. And this mark――
  Their hearts are in the good cause, and with Gladstone;
  And he will work till reeling Jingo’s crushed.
                                                    GEORGE MALLINSON.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, June 28, 1885.

                             CYMBELINE.

                               SONG.

  _Guiderius._ Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
                 Nor the furious winter’s rages;
               Thou thy worldly task has done,
                 Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
               Golden lads and girls all must,
               As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

  _Arviragus._ Fear no more, the frown o’ the great;
                 Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
               Care no more to clothe and eat;
                 To thee the reed is as the oak:
               The sceptre, learning, physic, must
               All follow this, and come to dust.

  _Guiderius._ Fear no more the lightning flash.

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

  _Guiderius._ Fear not slander, censure rash;

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

  _Both._ All lovers young, all lovers must
          Consign to thee, and come to dust.

  _Guiderius._ No exorciser harm thee!

  _Arviragus._ Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

  _Guiderius._ Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

  _Arviragus._ Nothing ill come near thee!

  _Both._ Quiet consummation have;
          And renowned be thy grave!
                                            Act IV. Scene II.

                            ――――:o:――――

                   TO L. P. ON TAKING HIS DEGREE.

  Fear no more the voice of the don,
    Nor the oft-cut tutor’s rages,
  Thou thy Oxford course hast run,
    And art numbered with the sages.
  All Oxford men, its my belief,
  Must graduate or come to grief.

  Fear no more the snarl of the sub[41],
    Thou art past that tyrant’s stroke.
  No more buttery beer, and grub,
    No more rows with sported oak!
  Even X.―――― himself, its my belief,
  Must graduate or come to grief!

  Fear no more the bull-dog’s dash,
    Nor pursuing proctor’s tone.
  Fear not rustication rash,
    Thou art now a graduate grown!
  All we, like thee, its my belief,
  Must do the same or come to grief!
        No dun’s accountant harm thee!
        No ugly woman charm thee!
        Tick unpaid forbear thee!
        Never bill come near thee!
        Prosper, flourish, gain renown,
        Ere you take the master’s gown!

_Odd Echoes from Oxford_, by A. Merion, B.A. (London, J. C. Hotten,
1872).

                           AS YOU LIKE IT.

                  ACT II. SCENE VII. _The Forest._

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

  _Duke S._ I think he be transform’d into a beast;
  For I can no where find him like a man.

  _First Lord._ My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
  Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

  _Duke S._ If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
  We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
  Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.

                          _Enter JAQUES._

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

  _Duke S._ Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,
  That your poor friends must woo your company?
  What, you look merrily!

  _Jaq._ A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest,
  A motley fool; a miserable world!
  As I do live by food, I met a fool;
  Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,
  And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms,
  In good set terms and yet a motley fool.
  “Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he,
  “Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune;”
  And then he drew a dial from his poke,
  And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
  Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock:
  Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.
  ’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
  And after one hour more ’twill be eleven;
  And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
  And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
  And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear
  The motley fool thus moral on the time,
  My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
  That fools should be so deep-contemplative,
  And I did laugh sans intermission
  An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
  A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

                              ――――――――

                         A COLD RENDERING.

The open-air performances of _As You Like it_ at Combe are all very
well, but under the influences of an east wind and damp ground, colds
in the head come on very rapidly, just imagine the melancholy Jaques
speaking thus:――

  A fool, a fool!――I bet a fool i’ the forest,
  A botley fool;――a biserable world!
  As I do live by――attishu――food, I bet a fool;
  Who laid hib dowd ad bask’d hib id the sud,
  Ad rail’d od Lady Fortude id good terbs,
  Id good set terbs――attishu――ad yet a botley fool.
  “Good borrow, fool,” quoth I, “Dough, Sir,” quoth he.
  “Call be dot fool till heaved has sed be fortude.”
  Ad――attishu――thed he drew a dial frob his poke,
  Ad lookid od it with lack lustre eye,
  Says very wisely, “It’s ted o’clock;
  Thus we bay see” quoth he, “how the world wags,
  Tis but ad hour ago sidce it was dide;
  Ad after ad――attishu――hour bore, ’twill be eleved;
  Ad so frob hour to hour, we ripe ad ripe,
  Ad thed frob hour to hour we rot ad rot,
  Ad thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear,
  The botley fool thus boral od the tibe,
  My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
  That fools should be so deep-codtebplative;
  Ad I did laugh, sads idterbissiod.
  Ad――attishu――hour by his dial. O doble fool!
  A worthy fool! Botley’s the odly wear――attishu!

_Funny Folks_, 1885.

                              ――――――――

                   MELANCHOLY JAQUES ON THE DUDE.

  A dude――a dude! I met a dude i’ the avenue;
  A silly dude;――a most conceited blockhead!――
  As I do live by toil, I met a dude,
  Who sucked his cane, and basked him in the sun,
  And ogled all the ladies with his grin;
  With good broad grin, and yet a silly dude.
  “Good morrow, dude,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he.
  “Call me not dude till I have put on corsets;”
  And then he drew an eye-glass from his poke,
  And looking through it with lack-lustre eye,
  Said, very softly, “She’s the proper soot!
  Thus may we see,” quoth he, “how the world wags:
  The last that passed was ugly as my cane;
  The next that comes may be a very angel.
  And, so from hour to hour, we bloom and bloom,
  And then, from hour to hour, we fade and fade,
  And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear
  The silly dude thus comment on the girls,
  My toes began to itch like chilblain toes,
  That dudes should be so deep-nonsensical;
  And I did kick, sans intermission,
  That dude for half an hour. Oh, noble dude!
  A worthy dude!――skin-tight’s the only wear.

                            ――――:o:――――

  All the world’s a Newspaper!
  And all our men and women merely _readers_:
  They have their tastes and their hobby horses,
  And each one in his turn receives a part,
  The number being _seven_――First the Poet,
  Fond of the jingling line and tinsel smile,
  Enjoying tortur’d sense and strangling art,
  But if the line flows smoothly to its end,
  For ever bathing in the Aonean font;
  Him nought but sonnets, stanzas, odes, delight,
  And so he reads his part. Next comes in view
  The sober, softly-sighing Sentimentalist,
  Seeking for rapture in the――dashy――line,
  The Shandean tale, ill told compar’d with Sterne’s,
  They fragments choose, and tales and anecdotes.
  Next the Wit, relishing the fun obscene
  If but the point be gross――Him repartees,
  Bon mots and gummy epigrams must please.
  And then the Politician, full of strange whims;
  Seeking essays, strictures, observations,
  With solemn phiz, talking of revolutions,
  Patriot armies, sieges, and leagues of despots;
  Of neutral powers and of neutral rights, cabals,
  Of foreign interference, suability of states,
  And all the mazes of the court police.
  He marks each signature――what Brutus writes he reads,
  And turns his eye from Cassius――sees in some men
  The wish to bond us to a foreign yoke;
  In others, sees the wish for nature’s state,
  And have the curbed bit of law destroy’d,
  That like the savage all might rove at will,
  Free as the air they breathe; while some he sees,
  Who wish the government of purest source
  And subordination, might secure
  Our fair inheritance――These form the general mass.
  Next comes the Economist, hunting for recipes,
  Receipts, experiments.――With up turn’d nose
  He runs o’er prose and verse, and like to Hotspur
  Had rather be a Kitten and cry mew
  Than, one of these same metre ballad loves.
  The grade of Moralist next advance to view!
  Fond of the maxim sage, and sober precept:
  They once a week expect their frugal fare,
  To mend the manners and instruct the mind,
  Last comes the pale and slipper’d Wonder Hunter,
  Intent on dying speeches,――hurricanes,
  Malignant fevers, pestilence and want.――
  Of thousands butcher’d on the bloody field,
  And thousands starving in the wasted land,
  They thunder storms delight in, and seek
  With earnest eye for deaths and murders,
  Of people drown’d, or burnt, or suffocated,
  Learn whom the Knot of Hymen has fast tied,
  And whom the Knot of Justice faster noos’d;
  With the long list of every human ill.
  These all must have their part. The printer, else,
  Is but the standing mark of censure loud,
  These tastes _not_ gratified, they will all growl,
  And cry the papers barren, empty, dull,
  Sans news, sans sense, sans art, sans everything.

From _The British Minstrel_, a collection of Songs, Recitations, &c.
September 25, 1824.

                              ――――――――

                      BUD, BLOSSOM, AND DECAY.

  “All the world’s a stage” in several stages;
  Great Shakespeare says our acts are seven ages,
  “And all the men and women players merely.”
  See “As you like it,” which informs us clearly
  We have our entrances and exits here,
  And many of us no great shakes appear.
  “King John,” “Macbeth,” and others of his plays,
  Confirm our wickedness in many ways;
  First, the Infant in its nurse’s arms, it
  “Mewles and pukes,” and as it cries she calms it.
  Next there’s the Schoolboy constantly declining
  The verb “to work,” and with his satchel whining,
  As on he creeps, like snail, at _slug_-gard’s pace――
  A _sun_ not always “with a shining face:”
  Until he learns ’tis easier to be good,
  His master being in th’ imperative mood;
  And if the youth is backward in the school,
  He has his knuckles reddened with the rule.
  The rule of three he does not deem much fun,
  While he is flinching at the rule of one,
  Who makes him only ten times more perplexed;
  The lover, _à la_ Vilikin comes next,
  And who, like Vilikin, trolls out a ballad
  As neatly garnished as a lobster salad;
  “Made to his mistress’ eyebrow;” to some air,
  Which howsome’er she says she cannot bear.
  Sometimes this age betokens noisy gent
  Not coming home till midnight is far spent
  Who cannot from the knockers quite abstain,
  Of which the quiet inmates will complain.
  Sometimes these fast young men after the play,
  At Cyder Cellars turn night into day,
  This they call “Killing time,” until they learn
  Old Time may, perhaps the compliment return.
  Then come the Soldiers and the Volunteers――
  In other words the prime of life appears――
  Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
  Jealous in honour, zealous when on guard;
  Seeking without the least intimidation,
  What Shakespeare calls “the bubble reputation.”
  ’Tis strange they are not _bored_ with so much _drilling_,
  While practising the noble art of killing!
  Next is the Justice, and he just is fat,
  Living on law――not always justice that!
  Proving beyond all doubt, by frequent panting,
  The law he lives on is not that of Banting;
  His body (outside) like a water butt
  But not within! His beard of formal cut,
  Full of wise saws (such as are seldom seen
  Excepting at a carpenter’s I ween)
  And modern instances; and so he plays
  His part, until he sees declining days
  Announce another age, when enters soon
  The sixth, “the lean and slippered Pantaloon,”
  “With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
  “His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
  “For his shrunk shank;” his voice begins to fail,
  And whistles up and down the vocal scale.
  Last scene of all this history that ends,
  Is mere oblivion of those trusty friends
  Who gather round us, and who thus endeavour
  To cheer and comfort ’ere we leave for ever
  This busy, meddling, moneymaking world;
  Sans teeth, as into it we once were hurled
  Indeed, for time can no more changes ring,
  “Sans sight, sans taste, sans smell, sans everything,
  And so the curtain falls, thus ends the play
  Which might be named “Bud, Blossom and Decay”!
  The time is short between each act, and we
  Should note the changes, and our errors see
  And thus a wholesome lesson may be gained,
  The proper sentiment being yet retained
  Without a jest against the reader’s will,
  Though slightly altered, “As you like it” still.

                                                 T. F. DILLON-CROKER.
From _The Ladies’ Companion_, March, 1865.

                              ――――――――

  “All the world is but a stage,” Shakespeare told us long ago,
  Had he graced the present age, still the Bard had found it so;
  All that from existence springs, in a theatre’s compass lies,
  Happy moments find the “wings” time itself takes those and “flies,”
  Hopes that light us on the way may be called of life “the floats,”
  Turning gloomy night to day, as the prompter Fate denotes;
  Fortune gives the glare of gas, and oft causing sad mishaps,
  With unsteady hand, alas! speculation work “the traps,”
  Fate gives out the parts to play, various “lengths” assigned to each,
  Happy who their “tag” can say, in a good concluding speech;
  Every act applause will get, if the action be correct,
  Ending with a kind of “set” most productive of effect.
  Suppers should take place in both――cheering signs of lively chats;
  Some too often show “a cloth” closed in by a “pair of flats.”
  Help our brethren, worn with age――Shakespeare was of truth a sayer
  “All the world is but a stage,” you and I alike――a player.
                                                     E. L. BLANCHARD.
From _The Royal Dramatic College Annual_, July, 1866.

                              ――――――――

                          LIFE AT OXFORD.

      ――――Oxford is a stage,
  And all the men in residence are players:
  They have their exeats and examinations;
  And one man in his time plays many parts.
  His acts being seven ages. At first the Freshman,
  Stumbling and stuttering in his tutor’s rooms.
  And then the aspiring Classman, with his white tie
  And shy desponding face creeping along
  Unwilling to the schools. Then, at the Union,
  Spouting like fury, with some woeful twaddle
  Upon the “Crisis.” Then a Billiard-player,
  Full of strange oaths, a keen and cunning card
  Clever in cannons, sudden and quick in hazards,
  Seeking a billiard reputation
  E’en in the pocket’s mouth. And then the Fellow,
  His fair round forehead with hard furrows lined,
  With weakened eyes and beard of doubtful growth,
  Crammed with old lore of useless application,
  And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
  Into the lean and study-worn Professor,
  With spectacles on nose and class at side;
  His youthful nose has grown a world too large
  For his shrunk face; and his big manly voice,
  Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
  And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
  That ends this strange eventful history,
  Is utter donnishness and mere nonentity,
  Without respect, or tact, or taste, or anything.

_The Oxford Spectator_, May 19, 1868.

                            ――――:o:――――

              A SHAKESPEARIAN RECITATION AFTER DINNER.

          ――――All the world’s a stage,
  And all the men and women merely players:
  They have their exits and their entrances,
  And one man in his time plays many parts,
  His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
  In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,
  Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad,
  In his sound childish treble: then the lean
  And slipper’d schoolboy, whistles, with side on
  Pouch and pipes, and his big manly voice
  Full of wise oaths; and then the whining lover,
  With spectacles on nose, and eyes severe,
  Seeking his well-saved mistress’ eyebrow
  Even in his satchel: Then a soldier,
  His youthful hose, of formal cut, sans taste,
  Made to his shank, and full of modern saws,
  Creeping like snail, sans everything, to school:
  And then the justice, full of strange instances,
  Jealous in honor, like the ’pard bearded
  In quarrel, turning again, sudden and quick,
  Towards childishness, with shining morning face
  A world too wide for his shrunk nurses arms,
  And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts,
  Unwillingly, the bubble reputation,
  Sans teeth, sans eyes, into the cannon’s mouth,
  Mewling and puking: Then, last scene of all,
  That ends this strange eventful history,
  Is second pantaloon, and mere oblivion.
                                                FREDERIC UPTON, 1885.

                            ――――:o:――――

                               SONG.

  _Amiens._ Under the greenwood tree
            Who loves to lie with me,
            And turn his merry note
            Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
       Come hither, come hither, come hither:
            Here shall he see
            No enemy
       But winter and rough weather.
                                  “As you like it.”――Act II. Scene V.

                            ――――:o:――――

                         THE LAMBETH CATCH.

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

            Under the Greenwood shed
            Who loves to go to bed,
              And tune his husky note
              To paupers’ coughing throat?
       Come hither, come hither, come hither.
              Here shall he see
              Such thin Skillèe
       Keep body and soul together.
                                      SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1866.

                     A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

                   ACT I.――A MIDSUMMER NIGHTMARE.
    SCENE,――_The Marquis of Salisbury’s House, Arlington Street_.

  NORTHCOTE. Are we all met?

  SALISBURY. Pat, pat; and this is a marvellous convenient place for
our rehearsal. This stuffed settee shall be our Speaker’s chair, these
tongs the Mace, and we will do it in action as we will do it before
the House.

  NORTHCOTE. Salisbury――――

  SALISBURY. What say’st thou, bully Stafford?

  NORTHCOTE. There are things in this comedy of _Jingo and Whisky_
that will never please. First, Jingo must draw his sword, which
Radicals can never abide.

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

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

  SALISBURY. Not a whit. I have a desire to make all well. Write me
a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with
our swords, and for the more better assurance tell them that I, Jingo
the Foreign Secretary, am not Jingo, but Salisbury, who barks more
than he bites. This will put them out of fear.

  GIFFARD. Well, we shall have such a prologue, and it shall be
written for six and eight.

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

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

  NORTHCOTE. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves. To bring
in――God shield us!――a tea tax among ladies, is a dreadful thing, for
there is not a more fearful wild fowl living than your tea tax, and we
ought to look to it.

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

  NORTHCOTE. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be
seen in the teapot, and he himself must speak, saying thus, or to the
same defect: “Ladies, or fair ladies, I would wish you, or I would
request you, or I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble. If
you think I have come hither as a tax, it were pity of my life; no, I
am no such thing; I am an indirect impost, as others are”――and there,
indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is
Hicks-Beach, the member for Gloucestershire.

  SALISBURY. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things; that
is to bring Coercion into Ireland.

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

  SALISBURY. ’Tis doubtful. One must come in with a rifle and a
Bobby’s lantern, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present, the
person of Coercion. Then there is another thing; we must have a
Protection Bill in the great Chamber.

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

  NORTHCOTE. Some man or other――Lowther, say――must present Protection;
and let him have some false statistics to signify its benefits. Or let
him hold his finger to his nose, and through that sign let “buncombe”
thus be known.

  SALISBURY. If that may be, then all is well. Come sit down, every
mother’s son, and rehearse your parts.

_Funny Folks_, June 27, 1885.

                ACT II.――THE CASTING OF THE CABINET.

                 SCENE――_Room in Arlington House_.
             _Enter Members of the Conservative Party._

  SALISBURY. Is all our company here?

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

  SALISBURY. Here is the scroll of every man’s name which is thought
fit by Churchill and myself to play in our interlude before the Houses
of Parliament, and all England.

  CHURCHILL. First, good Salisbury, say what the play treats on; then
read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point.

  SALISBURY. Marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy and
laughable tragedy――_A Conservative Government_.

  CHURCHILL. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry.
Now, good Salisbury, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters,
spread yourselves.

  SALISBURY. Answer as I call you: Randolph Churchill, the “Woodstock
Wonder” and “Champion of the Universe.”

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

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

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

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

  CHURCHILL. That will require some brains in the true performance of
it. If I do it, let the country look to’t. I will move storms; I will
be wise in _some_ measure. To the rest――Yet my chief humour is for a
fool. I could play a fool rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make
all split.

  The raging Rads
  Are blackguardly cads,
  With lots of fads,
    About men’s rights.

  But Churchill’s star
  Shall shine from far,
  And make and mar
    All lesser lights.

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

  SALISBURY. Stafford Northcote, the Antiquated.

  STAFFORD NORTHCOTE. Here, my lord.

  SALISBURY. You must take what Churchill and I choose to give you.
We will attend to you when the others are all served. Hicks-Beach, the
Tea-Taxer, you must play at being Chancellor of the Exchequer and
Leader of the House of Commons. But disobey Churchill at your peril.
Richard Cross, the Waterman.

  CROSS. Here, sir.

  SALISBURY. You can take the Home Office. Smith, the Stallkeeper, you
must take the lion’s part――the Secretary for War. And I hope here is a
Cabinet fitted.

  SMITH. Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it
me, for I am slow of study.

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

  CHURCHILL. Let me play the lion too. I will roar, that it will do
any man’s heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the
Tories say, “_Let him roar again! Let him roar again!_”

  SALISBURY. An’ you should do it too terribly, you would fright the
Liberals, that they would shriek; and that would turn us all out.

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

  CHURCHILL. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the
Liberals out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to
turn us out; but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as
gently as any Liberal, I will roar you an ’twere any Radical.

  SALISBURY. You can play no part but Secretary for India; for you
took a Cook’s tour there, wear an indigo-dyed suit, use India tea for
breakfast――therefore, who knows India as you do?

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

  SALISBURY. Why, what you will.

  CHURCHILL. I will discharge it in either your Tory way, your Whig
manner, your Liberal-Conservative manner, your Democrat, Republican,
Socialist, Communist manner, or no manner at all.

  SALISBURY. Play it as you have your former parts――bare-faced. But,
masters, here are your parts; and I am to entreat you, request you,
and desire you to con them by to-morrow night. In the meantime, I will
draw a bill of taxes such as Tories usually want.

  CHURCHILL. We will meet again――and rehearse our parts most obscenely
and courageously. Adieu!
                                                           [_Exeunt._

                              ――――――――

            THE NEW MINISTRY’S STATEMENT TO THE COUNTRY.

  If we offend, it is with our good will.
  That you should think, we come not to offend,
  But with good will. To show our simple skill,
  That is the true beginning of our end.
  Consider, then, we come not in despite,
  We do not come as minding to content you,
  Our true intent is. All for your delight
  We are not here. That you should here repent you,
  The Cabinet is formed; and by their show,
  You shall know all that you are like to know.

                            THE PUBLIC.

  Their speech is like a tangled chain.
  Truly this is hot ice, and wondrous strange snow.
  Where shall we find the concord of this discord?

_Funny Folks_, July 4, 1885.

                            ――――:o:――――

  _Oberon._
     I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
     Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
     Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
     With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
     There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
     Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
     And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
     Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
     And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,
     And make her full of hateful fantasies.
                                                  ACT II.,――SCENE I.

                            ――――:o:――――

                         A MONODY ON MONEY.

            DEDICATED TO OUR “VERY” PARTICULAR BANKERS.

  “I know a bank” where busy men are daily seen to pore
  Over their books with earnest zeal from ten o’clock till four,
  From whose retreat are issued forth more rich and treasured _notes_
  Than ever have been known to come from sweetest song-birds’ throats.
  Where _crowns_ abound, and _sov’reigns_ rule the place with despot
    sway,
  For no one there will _check_ their power, so well belov’d are they.
  There seems a _money mania_ for everything that’s dear,
  And, strange as it may seem, I’ve heard that far-things here are near.
  Cleopatra drank pearls, they say, but here she is outvied,
  If pork they wish, they’ve _guinea_ pigs; if beef, the _silver_ side.
  Their drink is pure _aqua d’ora_, and I have heard it’s true
  Their servant men are _Bills_ and _Franks_, their housemaid is a
    _Sou_.
  And now, before I end my lay, I ought to make it known
  That though this bank is always thronged, each one may get _a-loan_;
  And though these bankers care for gold, it never can be said
  _Matter-o’-Money_ it will be if ever they are wed.

_Fun_, 1879.

                            ――――:o:――――
                     SHAKESPEARE AT PADDINGTON.

  I know a bank whereon foul road-slush flows,
  Where passing one hath need to hold one’s nose;
  Where the familiar slop-carts do combine
  To store malodorous muck in fetid line.
  There drowses heavy BUMBLE day and night,
  Lulled into stupor to his soul’s delight.
  He, with his pompous Paddingtonian kin,
  With well-plumped pocket and with well-filled skin,
  Allows the fetid foul fermenting mass
  To nauseate the souls of all who pass.

_Addendum by Mr. Punch_

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

_Punch_, October 27, 1883.

                            ――――:o:――――

Shakespeare, who knew everything, was aware of the coming of Lord
Randolph Churchill when he wrote――

  “I am that merry wanderer of the night.
  I jest to Salisbury and make him smile,
  When I a fat and bean-fed squire beguile,
  Speaking in likeness of a Tory _rôle_.
  And sometimes lurk I in the Lib’ral’s bowl,
  In very likeness of a Democrat;
  And when he speaks, against his lips I bob,
  And contradict him with my Tory tale.”

  _Funny Folks_, May 5, 1884.

                  THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN.

As long ago as November, 1883, my valued friend Mr. T. F.
Dillon-Croker, hearing that I contemplated publishing a collection of
“Parodies and Burlesques,” wrote a characteristic letter, generously
placing his accumulated stores of materials at my disposal. How fully
and frankly I have availed myself of that kind offer may be judged
from the fact that scarcely a single part of “Parodies” has appeared
which has not contained one, or more, contributions furnished by Mr.
Dillon-Croker.

In the letter above-mentioned, he remarked:――“You may not be aware
that the late Mr. Gilbert A’ Beckett wrote a burlesque on _King John_
(with the benefit of the Act,) 1837, so that irreverence in this
direction is no novelty. Hubert was acted by Edward Wright, afterwards
so popular at the Adelphi, and who, though often inclined to be
coarse, made me as a boy laugh more than I have ever done since, and
Madame Sala (the mother of the genial and accomplished G. A. Sala,)
was Lady Constance.

Faulconbridge remarks:

  We are two brothers of the same Mama,
  But there are reasons for suspecting rather,
  By some mistake there was an extra father.

Arthur, instead of losing his eyes, is condemned to have a tooth out,
and Hubert enters with a large pair of pinchers:

  “And you’ll take out my tooth――If you will, come,
  I’ll not resist, here is my tooth by gum!”

This, at the present day sounds very insipid, if not, irreverent
fooling. A’ Beckett also turned Manfred into a burlesque ballet opera
in 1834. These pieces were considered worth publishing, and are
curious, as shewing the style of composition that amused an audience
nearly 50 years ago.”

Following up the clue given in this letter, it appears that this
burlesque was first produced at the St. James’s Theatre October 29,
1837, when the cast was as follows:――

                              NATIVES.

  _King John the first._ (Successor to Richard
       the Second)                                    Mr. H. Hall.

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

  _Ruffian._ (Attached to Hubert, but a member
       of the Animal’s Friend Society)                   Mr. Hart.

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

  _Robert._ (His brother, bar Illegitimate, but
       Sinister)                                         Mr. Long.

  _Prince Arthur._ (A royal duodecimo, a pledge
       of affection taken in by his uncle)          Miss C. Booth.

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

  _Lady Constance._ (Wife to her son Arthur’s
       father, and mother to Arthur’s father’s
       son)                                            Madam Sala.

  _Lady Elinor._ (John’s father’s widow, and
       Arthur’s uncle’s mother                        Mrs. Pensor.

                            FOREIGNERS.

  _King Philip of France_. (Successor to his
       predecessor)                                    Mr. Sidney.

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

  _Chatillon._ (Upon speaking and singing
       terms with Philip)                             Mr. Burnett.

  _Duke of Austria._ (Founder of the Skinner’s
       Company, bound in calf, but unlettered)        Mr. Halford.

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

Mr. Hall, who impersonated King John, wore a chimney cowl as a helmet,
surmounted by a weather cock, of which the letters N. E. W. S.,
translated, burlesque fashion, became “Naughty English Wrongful
Sovereign.” Undoubtedly the best scene in the burlesque is that which
treats of Hubert and Prince Arthur, the first scene of the fourth act
in the original. This approaches more nearly to a parody of the
language of Shakespeare, than is usual in most burlesques of his
tragedies.

                  SCENE V.――_A Room in a Castle._

    _Enter HUBERT, with a large pair of pinchers, followed by a
                             Ruffian._

  _Hubert._ Just hold the pinchers, I’ve got here a youth,
            And I’ve got orders to take out his tooth.
            So when I stamp my foot come in and bind him――
            His legs together and his arms behind him.

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

  _Hubert._ That’s my look out. What right have you to chatter?
            Vanish!                          [_Exit_ Ruffian.

                           SONG.――HUBERT.

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

              There’s a tooth in his little gum;
                ’Tis a pearl a garnet broach within,
              And they say that it out must come,
                ’Tis a job, I know, is quite a sin.
              There’s a tongue in his little head,
                A tongue that always wags away;
              Like a clock at the back of a bed,
                Which keeps on tick tick night and day.

                    There’s a tooth, &c.

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

                          _Enter_ Arthur.

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

  _Hubert._ I must not listen to his childish chatter,
            For if I do he’ll melt my heart like batter.
            Look here, young Arthur
                                       (_Gives warrant._)
                                    Can you understand
            This paper written in a large text hand?

  _Arthur._ Oh, can I read it. Oh, unhappy youth!
            Must you with pinchers then take out my tooth?

  _Hubert._ Young boy I must.

  _Arthur._                   And will you?

  _Hubert._                                 Yes I will.

  _Arthur._ Oh, it’s too bad――When you were taken ill
            Who was it to the chemist’s ran full gallop,
            To get a penny dose of salts and jalap?
            And when I’ve seen you, after dining out,
            When you’ve made free at some hot drinking bout,
            Have I not always been extremely willing
            To give for soda-water my last shilling?
            And you’ll take out my tooth? If you will, come,
            I’ll not resist, here is my tooth, by gum!

  _Hubert._ Young boy, I’ve sworn to do it――do not flinch,
            These instruments must help me at a pinch.
            Come forth.       (_Stamps._)

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

     (_To Ruffian_) Do as I bid you.

  _Arthur._                         Hubert stay
             My tooth is out, do send that man away.

                     (Ruffian _seizes_ Arthur.)

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

  _Arthur._ Why be so boisterous I will hold my mug?
            For Heaven’s sake Hubert send that man away,
            And not a word against it I will say.
            Hubert, your word indeed shall be my law
            My tooth is out, see I will hold my jaw!

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

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

                                                     [_Exit_ Ruffian.

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

  _Arthur._ Is there no plan?

  _Hubert._                      None but to lose your tooth.

  _Arthur._ Oh, would that your’s good Hubert did but ache,
            That I to stop your pain, great pains might take.

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

  _Arthur._ Oh, take my tongue, I want my tooth to chew,
            Leave only that, e’en if it be to eat,
            With you good Hubert, some delicious meat,
            Which I have ordered for a little treat.

  _Hubert._ Boy, you have touched me hard, as I’m a sinner,
            I’ll leave your tooth at least till after dinner,
            Your uncle’s heard that dentists who ain’t clever
            Will sometimes lock a person’s jaw for ever.

  _Arthur._ Hubert, I thank thee.

  _Hubert._                       Mind you ne’er unfold it.
            Your jaw is safe――be good enough to hold it.

                          A WINTER’S TALE.

A burlesque of this play was produced at the Lyceum Theatre on
September 15, 1856, entitled “_Perdita, or the Royal Milkmaid_, being
the legend upon which Shakespeare is supposed to have founded his
_Winter’s Tale_,” a new and original burlesque by William Brough. A
reproduction of the cast on that occasion will interest old
playgoers:――

  LEONTES (_King of Sicilia; a King who, in
   spite of the belief to the contrary,
   could do wrong_)                                   MR. S. CALHAEM.

  POLIXENES (_King of Bithynia_).                 MR. WILLIAM BROUGH.
              (_His first appearance on any stage_).

  FLORIZEL (_his Son and Heir――disobedient
   as usual, but charming as ever_)
                              MRS. ALFRED MELLON (late MISS WOOLGAR).

  AUTOLYCUS (_a Rogue, and it is
    hardly necessary to add, a Vagabond_)            MR. J. L. TOOLE.

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

  ANTIGONUS (_a Nurse_)                                  MR. BARRETT.

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

  BLOCUS (_an old Shepherd, supposed――by
    everybody but the Audience, who
    know better――to be Perdita’s Father_).               MR. HOLSTON.

  TIME, as CHORUS (_up to everything,
    including, of course, the time of day_)      MISS HARRIET GORDON.

  HERMIONE (_Leontes’ Queen, always
    elegant, and finally quite Statuesque_)    MRS. BUCKINGHAM WHITE.

  PERDITA (_the Royal Milkmaid_)                   MISS MARIE WILTON.

  PAULINA (_a strong-minded Matron;
    considerably the better-half of Antigonus_)          MRS. WESTON.

                              ――――――――

In 1817 Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote a dramatic poem, entitled
“_Zapolya_, a Christmas Tale,” to which he prefixed the remark, “The
form of the following dramatic poem is in humble imitation of the
Winter’s Tale of Shakespeare.”

Beyond the mere form, however, _Zapolya_ has little or no resemblance
to Shakespeare’s play.

                            KING HENRY V.

                               ACT IV.
                              PROLOGUE.

                               Chorus.

  Now entertain conjecture of a time
  When creeping murmur and the poring dark
  Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
  From camp to camp through the foul womb of night
  The hum of either army stilly sounds,
  That the fixed sentinels almost receive
  The secret whispers of each others watch:
  Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
  Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face;
  Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
  Piercing the night’s dull ear, and from the tents
  The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
  With busy hammers closing rivets up,
  Give dreadful note of preparation.

                            ――――:o:――――

                      LORD MAYOR’S DAY (1827).

  Now countless turbots and unnumbered soles
  Fill the wide kitchens of each livery hall:
  From pot to spit, to kettle, stew, and pan,
  The busy hum of greasy scullions sounds,
  That the fixed beadles do almost perceive
  The secret dainties of each others watch.
  Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
  Each table sees the other’s bill of fare:
  Cook threatens cook in high and saucy vaunt
  Of rare and new-made dishes; confectioners,
  Both pastrycooks and fruiterers in league,
  With candied art their rivets closing up,
  Give pleasing notice of a rich dessert.

                       ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

On November 21, 1866, an Extravaganza, founded on the above tragedy,
was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, then under the
management of Mr. J. B. Buckstone. This burlesque was entitled “Antony
and Cleopatra; or, His-tory and Her-story in a modern nilo-metre,” by
F. C. Burnand, and the principal parts were played by Mr. and Mrs.
Charles Matthews, Mr. Compton, Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Clark. The best
parody it contained was that of the well-known passage descriptive of
the meeting of Antony and Cleopatra on the river of Cydnus, commencing
thus:――

  “The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,
  Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
  Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
  The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
  Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
  The water which they beat to follow faster,
  As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
  It beggar’d all description: she did lie
  In her pavilion――cloth-of-gold of tissue――
  O’er-picturing that Venus where we see
  The fancy outwork nature: on each side her
  Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
  With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem
  To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
  And what they undid did.”

In the Burlesque _Lepidus_ enquires:――

                 Tell me how they met?

  _Eros._ I will: And first then you must know that Marc
          Met Cleopatra driving in the park.
          The trap she sat in, like the Sun-God’s car,
          Shone in the drive, the seats were damask white,
          Tawny the rugs, and all so scented, that
          The swells sniffed curiously. Her whip of silver,
          Half parasol, which dared the sun; and flicked
          The ponies, which she beat to trot the faster,
          As amorous of her lash. For her own person
          It beggared all description; she reclined
          Upon those cushions I’ve described before,
          And high in front, and round, rose dangerous waves
          Of foaming frothy muslin petticoats,
          Art’s fancy outworks: in the seat behind her
          Sat two quick natty boys, like perky Cupids,
          With white pip’d breeches and pale salmon tops,
          To guard whose knees a pretty oilskin apron
          They both undid and did.

  _Lepi._                         O rare for Anthony!

  _Eros._ And when she’d pass’d, young Egypt at the rails
          Look’d in each other’s eyes, then after _her_,
          Then gazed about at――well, they knew not what,
          As dazed as is the poor unlatch-key’d husband
          After a late carousal, when his spouse,
          Candle in hand, unchains the guardian door;
          So they: so Anthony: who whipped and spurred
          Up to her side, and _whip-spered_ in her ear
          Soft nothings, which, though nothing in themselves,
          Lead oft――

  _Lepi._            Sir, I’m the father of a family.
          Never could Tony pretty woman’s lip shun,
          No wonder he was caught by this Egyptian.

In the end, Cleopatra, instead of being stung by an asp, as in the
tragedy, pretends to commit suicide by the use of a Pharoah’s serpent.

                              HAMLET.

                     BENJAMIN CÆSAR REDIVIVUS.

(_On the happy recovery of Lord Beaconsfield from an attack of gout._)

  Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day,
  Not like old Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
  Will still go on in his corrupting play,
  Nor “stop a hole to keep the wind away.”

_Fiz_, January 18, 1879.

                            ――――:o:――――

                     THE SPANIARD’S SOLILOQUY.

  To fight or not to fight, that is the question,
  Whether ’tis nobler in the mind
  To bear a patient drubbing by the French
  Or take up arms against old Louis
  And by opposing end him
  And exterminate the Bourbons?
  To fight――to beat――no more;
  And by our beating end a thousand ills
  Which we were born to.
  ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
  To fight――to beat――perchance to be beat
  Ah! there’s the rub.
  For by our being beat what ills may come;
  There’s the respect that makes our liberty so dear,
  For who would bear the sneers and scoffs of tyrants,
  The oppressor’s wrong, the insolence of office
  When we can still our liberty maintain
  With the bare rapier?
  Who would mind our constitution being altered
  But that a dread of something more
  (That _Alliance_ from whose unholy laws
  No state is free) puzzles the will,
  And makes us rather bear these ills we have
  Than fly to others that we know not of.

_The Mirror_, April 5, 1823.

                            ――――:o:――――

                      A FISHERMAN’S SOLILOQUY.

  To sniggle or to dibble, that’s the question!
  Whether to bait a hook with worm or bumble,
  Or to take up arms of any sea, some trouble
  To fish, and then home send them. To fly, to whip――
  To moor and tie my boat up by the end
  To any wooden post, or natural rock
  We may be near to, on a Preservation
  Devoutly to be fished. To fly――to whip――
  To whip! perchance two bream; and there’s the chub!
                                                       F. C. BURNAND.

As a singular instance of the popularity of Hamlet’s famous Soliloquy,
it may be mentioned that a Hebrew version of it was printed in 1880,
in _Kottabos_, a College journal published in Dublin.

                            ――――:o:――――

                          THE DANISH WAR.
                  (_From our own Correspondent._)

                                         Elsinore, May 20, 1848.

     The army under General Fortinbras remains inactive. The
     Crown Prince Hamlet has been appointed to the command, but
     he is in a state of doubt as to whether he ought to accept
     it. A good many intrigues are believed to exist at the
     Danish Court, and two noblemen named Rosencrantz and
     Guildenstern are suspected of being employed on a delicate
     and dangerous mission. Gertrude, the Queen, does not appear
     to enjoy good health, and rumours are rife of violent scenes
     between her and Hamlet. The death of the late Lord
     Chamberlain does not seem to have been at all satisfactorily
     accounted for; and the consequent derangement of his
     daughter, who it appears has been going about singing very
     improper songs, has occasioned a great deal of scandal. The
     King, however, swills his draught of Rhenish down as usual,
     and even had some private theatricals lately. The monarch,
     however, could not sit out the first piece, and no wonder,
     for _entre nous_ being legitimate it was awfully slow.
     Meantime Hamlet’s conduct is quite unaccountable: some
     people hint that he is mad; and the fact of his having got
     up a cock-and-bull story of a ghost, which he says is always
     walking about with a certain MARSHALL STALK, supposed to be
     a Prussian from the name, would seem to countenance the
     theory. For my own part, whether he be mad or no, I think
     his proceedings very stupid and tiresome.

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

                      MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

                                SONG.

  _Balthasar_,――Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
                 Men were deceivers ever,
               One foot in sea and one on shore,
                 To one thing constant never:
               Then sigh not so, but let them go,
                 And be you blithe and bonny,
               Converting all your sounds of woe
                 Into Hey nonny, nonny.

               Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,
                 Of dumps so dull and heavy;
               The fraud of men was ever so,
                 Since summer first was leafy:
                   Then sigh not so, &c.

                              ――――――――

                         NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ.

                Rail no more, Tories, rail no more;
                  Whigs are but asses ever,
                On land, on wave, on sea, on shore,
                  All rascals of white liver.
                      Then rail not so,
                      But let them go,
                  And be you blithe and bonny,
                Converting sounds of wrath and woe
                  Into hey Ninny! nonny.

                Sing merry ditties, and no mo
                  Of lumps so dull and heavy;
                The heads of Whigs were ever so,
                  Since summer first was leavy.
                      Then rail not so, &c.

_Blackwood’s Magazine_, July, 1823.
                            ――――:o:――――

                MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING IN THE CITY.

  Sigh no more, dealers, sigh no more,
    Shares were unstable ever,
  They often have been down before,
    At high rates constant never.
        Then sigh not so,
        Soon up they’ll go,
  And you’ll be blithe and funny,
    Converting all your notes of woe
  Into hey, money, money.

  Write no more letters, write no mo
    On stocks so dull and heavy.
  At times on ’Change ’tis always so,
    When bears a tribute levy.
        Then sigh not so,
        And don’t be low,
  In sunshine you’ll make honey,
    Converting all your notes of woe
  Into hey money, money.

_Punch_, September 28, 1867.

                            THE TEMPEST.

“The Enchanted Isle; or Raising the Wind on the most approved
principles; a Drama without the smallest claim to Legitimacy,
Consistency, Probability, or anything else but absurdity; in which
will be found much that is unaccountably coincident with Shakespeare’s
‘_Tempest_.’” This burlesque, written by the Brothers R. B. and W.
Brough, was first performed at the Adelphi Theatre, London, on Monday,
November 26, 1848. Beyond the general foundation of the plot, it
contains no parodies of Shakespeare, but is full of allusions to the
political revolutions and events of 1848, and has many parodies of
songs which were then popular, but which are now, for the most part,
obsolete. It was no doubt a very amusing burlesque, having a good deal
of lively music, songs, and dances, and the cast was a powerful one,
including Paul Bedford, Miss Woolgar, Madame Celeste, and O. Smith. It
was afterwards revived at the Haymarket Theatre, when Miss P. Horton,
Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Mr. Buckstone, Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Clark performed
the leading parts. The following amusing parody of the Ghost-scene in
“Hamlet” was spoken as a

                             PROLOGUE.

     SCENE――_representing various illustrations of the life of
                           Shakespeare_.

_Enter the GHOST of SHAKESPEARE, followed by the POPULAR  COMEDIAN. The
GHOST paces round the stage._

  _P. Com._ Whither wilt thou lead me?
            Speak――I’ll go no farther.

  _Ghost._ Mark me!

  _P. Com._          I will.

  _Ghost._ I am old Shakespeare’s spirit,
           Doomed for a certain term to walk the earth;
           And on the stage draw tolerable houses,――
           Till by the _taste_ of a _discerning_ age,
           For monster drums and Ethiopian bards
           Driven to make a way; but that I am forbid
           To charm the public is not what has caused
           My troubled spirit to revisit earth:
           I can a tale unfold of recent wrongs,
           Whose lightest word would harrow up a soul
           Of gutta-percha toughness――freeze thy blood――
           Make thy two eyes like cabs start from their stands――
           And each particular orb to roll and stretch
           Like pictures of the fretful hippopotamus
           At the Zoological! List! List! oh, list!
           If e’er thou did’st old Stratford William love――

  _P. Com._ Good gracious!

  _Ghost._ Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

  _P. Com._ Murder?

  _Ghost._ Murder most foul I’ve been accustomed to――
           And in the ordinary way don’t mind it――
           But this most foul, strange and unnatural――

  _P. Com._ Haste me to know it, that I,
            With wings as swift as carrier pigeon on the Derby Day,
            May sweep to my revenge.

  _Ghost._                           I find thee apt;――
            And duller shouldst thou be than the dead cats
            That rot in countless shoals on Thames’s banks,
            Did’st thou not stir in this?――You’ve seen my “TEMPEST?”

  _P. Com._ Some time ago.

  _Ghost._ Ah――well――’twas given out that――(pardon me,
           A ghost must have his feelings)――rumour reached me,
           That the whole ear of London
           Was by a forged process of my “TEMPEST”
           Rankly abus’d――and know, thou noble youth――
           With serpents and trombones disguised, my piece
           Now scares the town.

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

  _Ghost._ Aye, that most queer and het’rogeneous dish,――
           With witchcraft and old fairy tales dress’d up,――
           (Singular taste! that could on Shakespeare graft
           Old “Mother Bunch”) bringing to “Tom Thumb’s” level
           The plot of my most seeming perfect play.
           Oh, gracious! what a dreadful sight was there
           For me, or any other anxious parent!
           My tricksy _Ariel_ in a ballet skirt――
           The fairy of a Christmas pantomime!
           My _Caliban_――a melodrama villain――
           Bearing _Miranda_ off――(stol’n incident
           From _Grindoff_ in the “Miller and his Men!”)
           And then resorting to an ancient scheme
           From “Harlequin and the Three Wishes” borrowed
           Oh horrible! oh horrible!――most horrible!――
           If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not――
           Do something, please――I’m not particular what――
           But soft――an odour wafts along the wall――
           Methinks I scent an early breakfast stall.
           I must get home――I’m not allowed a key――
           Adieu! adieu! adieu! remember me?
                                                        [_Exit._

  _P. Com._ Remember thee! Aye, thou poor Ghost! e’en while
           Memory holds seat ’neath this distracted tile,
           I will avenge thee for this outrage vile,
           But how? Stop! yes――“THE ENCHANTED ISLE.”
           Beat them on their own ground, the play’s the thing.
           We’ll out-burlesque them!――Ho! there! Prompter, ring!

From this it will be seen that something in the nature of an apology
was deemed necessary for this burlesque on “_The Tempest_,” and more
recently when Mr. Burnand produced his “_Ariel_,” there was an angry
discussion in the press, in which many maintained that it was not in
good taste, nor was it advisable for the credit of our stage, that
this beautiful play (supposed to have been the last written by
Shakespeare), should be thus irreverently treated. On page 144 of
“Parodies” will be found extracts from this correspondence. “_Ariel_”
was produced at the Gaiety Theatre, in October, 1883, and though a
very harmless burlesque in itself, and in far better taste than the
Broughs, “_Enchanted Isle_,” it was received with many signs of
disapprobation, and had but a short run. There was nothing very
original, nor very comical, in the conception of Prospero as a
magician, entirely dependent upon his conjuring apparatus without
which he was absolutely powerless, whilst as to the plot, it was that
of the “_Tempest_” with modern variations cut to a comic pattern, and
represented by a clever company, among whom were Miss Phyllis
Broughton as Ferdinand, Miss Farren as Ariel, Miss Harcourt as the
Captain, Mr. Wyatt as Sebastian, and Mr. Elton as Caliban. The
burlesque teemed with popular allusions, and the Fisheries Exhibition,
naturally, was not in high favour; there were some lively songs, and,
of course, plenty of dances for Miss E. Farren, and Miss Connie
Gilchrist.

                            ――――:o:――――

  _ARIEL sings_――
           Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
           In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
           There I couch when owls do cry,
           On the bats back I do fly
           After summer merrily.
       Merrily, merrily shall I live now
       Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Parody sung by J. P. Harley in Planché’s _Sleeping Beauty_, Covent
Garden, April 20, 1840.

           Who would be Great Grand Lord High?
           All the blame on him must lie;
           Everywhere for him they cry
           Up and down stairs he must fly――
           After all folks verily!――
       Verily! Verily!――Few could live now
       Under the honours beneath which I bow!

                            ――――:o:――――

  _Prospero_
      Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
      As I foretold you, were all spirits and
      Are melted into air, into thin air:
      And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
      The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
      The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
      Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve
      And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
      Leave not a rack behind.

It is possible that this passage was suggested to Shakespeare by some
lines in Lord Stirling’s _Tragedie of Darius_, 1604:――

  Those golden pallaces, those gorgeous halles,
    With fourniture superfluouslie faire;
  Those statelie courts, those sky encountring walles,
    Evanish all like vapours in the aire.

                        END OF THE PARODIES.

  Our parodies are ended. These our authors,
  As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and
  Are melted into air, into thin air.
  And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,
  The Critic’s puff, the Trade’s advertisement,
  The Patron’s promise, and the World’s applause,
  Yea, all the hopes of poets,――shall dissolve,
  And, like this insubstantial fable fated,
  Leave not a groat behind!

_Posthumous Parodies_, 1814.

                A FEW PARODIES OF DETACHED PASSAGES.

                            “FLIRTING.”
                         (After _Portia_.)

  The quality of flirting is not strained;
  It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven
  Upon the favoured ones. It is twice blest:
  It blesses her that flirts, and him that’s flirted with.
  It profiteth the husband better than
  His deeds; and he becomes in truth renowned
  The time his wife doth gad about and flirt
  With men. It’s mightiest in the ugliest. Oh!
  It is the attribute of love itself;
  And wives do think themselves most loved when they
  Do drive or walk with other man than they
  Who are their lawful husbands. But, O wife!
  Though loving be thy plea, remember this,
  That flirting doth beget unto the pair
  A reputation far from enviable.

_Scraps_, July, 1885.

                            ――――:o:――――

Song from J. R. Planche’s extravaganza, “Fortunio” (1843), sung by
Miss P. Horton as _Fortunio_:――

  Tell me, tell me
  Tell me, tell me
  New, d’ye fancy bread?
  Smoking hot from oven red
  Or prefer you stale instead?
  Reply, reply, reply.

                            ――――:o:――――

Lines spoken by F. Robson as _Prince Richcraft_ in J. R. Planché’s
extravaganza, “The Discreet Princess,” produced at the Olympic
Theatre, December 26, 1855:――

  Ha! I remember a low sort of shop
  Where they sold peppermint and lollipop,
  And lozenges in boxes by the score
  With the inscription o’er them “cough no more.”
  I gazed upon the things red――green――and blue,
  And others of a still more sickly hue;
  And thought if one for poison had a whim
  There lived a seedy chap would sell it him,
  And prove the truth that brief inscription bore
  For in his coffin he would “cough no more!”

                            ――――:o:――――

                   DREARY SONG FOR DREARY SUMMER.

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

  Well, don’t cry, my little tiny boy,
    _With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
  Amuse yourself, and break some toy,
    _For the rain it raineth every day_.

  Alas, for the grass on papa’s estate,
    _With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
  He’ll have to buy hay at an awful rate,
    _For the rain it raineth every day_.

  Mamma, she can’t go out for a drive,
    _With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
  How cross she gets about four or five,
    _For the rain it raineth every day_.

  If I were you I’d be off to bed,
    _With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
  Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,
    _For the rain it raineth every day_.

  A great while ago this song was done,
    _With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
  And I, for one, cannot see it’s fun,
    _But the Dyces[42] and the Colliers[42] can――they say_.
                                                      SHIRLEY BROOKS.
1860.

                            ――――:o:――――

                      _Shakespoke’s Epigram._

  Young friend, for Cyclus’s sake forbear
  To bite the dust that’s ever near.
  Blest is the man avoids the stones,
  And curst is he that breaks his bones.

_Lyra Bicyclica_, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Boston. E. C. Hodges and Co.
1885.)

The same volume contains several imitations of Shakespeare’s sonnets
in praise of the pleasures of bicycle riding.

                            ――――:o:――――

“The First Sitting of the Committee on the Proposed Monument to
Shakspeare, carefully taken in shorthand by ZACHARY CRAFT, amanuensis
to the Chairman.”

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

Cheltenham. Printed for G. A. Williams, 1823. This little volume of 88
pages contains the supposed remarks of the following individuals:――The
Chairman, a member of the Committee, and the _shades_ of Aristotle,
Longinus, Æschylus, Euripides, Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence, Lope de
Vega Del Carpio, Molière, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Thomson, Voltaire,
Diderot, D’Alembert, La Harpe, Gray, Garrick, Mademoiselle Claison,
Warburton, Johnson, Malone, Steevens, Susanna Shakespeare,
John-a-Combe, Alfieri, R. B. Sheridan, Porson, and a number of other
less distinguished persons. Very few of the remarks are either witty
or clever, nor have they many of the characteristics of the personages
to whom they are ascribed.

                            ――――:o:――――

_Coriolanus Travestie_, by J. Morgan, was produced in Liverpool in
1846, and a burlesque of King Lear, entitled, _King Queer and his
Daughters Three_, was played at the Strand Theatre, London, in 1855.
It will therefore be seen that travesties have been written upon
nearly every one of William Shakespeare’s Tragedies, and that not even
his comedies, or historical plays, have quite escaped burlesque. The
enumeration here given is probably incomplete, as many burlesques
which have been produced in provincial towns, and some which have been
played in London, enjoyed too short a run to obtain the advantage of
being printed.

Before closing this chapter on the burlesques of Shakespeare, the
following remarks on the subject which appeared in _The Daily News_,
of October 25, 1884, may be quoted:――

     Few more striking proofs could be given of the great and
     growing popularity of the theatre than the most recent
     fluctuations of stage humour. The experience of the present
     thus far confirms the judgment formed during the two
     preceding seasons, that the comic element in stage
     representation has undergone an important mutation both in
     motive and in method. Fun is aimed at, and probably
     achieved, as frequently as of yore; but the kind of fun and
     the means employed to produce it are entirely different, and
     possible only under the new conditions of the theatre. Only
     a few years ago, when London had comparatively few theatres,
     and supported, after a fashion, two opera-houses, the
     theatrical world filled a ludicrously small space in English
     life.

     Only when the public are so keenly interested in the
     dramatic world as they are at present could success attend
     the profuse introduction of personal parody or caricature
     into the lightest of stage plays. It would be poor fun to
     present an elaborate caricature of a serious actor to a
     spectator who knew little, and cared less about him, and
     probably had not seen him in the part more especially
     selected for ridicule. Recent burlesque or travesty depends
     almost entirely for success upon such caricature, and
     assumes perfect knowledge of all the mannerisms of prominent
     actors and actresses. The art of inverting a noble story so
     that it may appear grotesque occupies quite a secondary
     position in the category of effects. It would not, for
     instance, be considered funny at this present juncture to
     travesty the Venetian Senate into policemen drinking pots of
     porter, and Othello himself into a negro, with plantation
     songs, dances and accent. Nor would it be thought amusing to
     dress Shylock with three hats upon his head, and make him in
     the intervals of the Trial Scene try to sell cigars to the
     young Venetians present in court. Yet this is precisely what
     Frank Talfourd, the great master of the word torturing
     school, and the inventor of the agglutinate system of
     punning, did. Henry J. Byron, too, made perhaps his greatest
     burlesque hit in _The Lady of Lyons_ by making up Beauseant
     as Napoleon III. and Claude Melnotte as Napoleon I. Again,
     Talfourd in _The Merchant of Venice Preserved_ wrote
     amazingly funny dialogue and songs for Robson, but depended
     in no kind of way upon imitations of Charles Kean and
     Phelps, which Robson could have done to perfection. What
     would now be required in _Othello_ would be a low-comedy
     imitation of Signor Salvini with an Iago made up like Mr.
     Irving, and a Desdemona who could at least give a general
     impression of Miss Ellen Terry. We are not propounding that
     the words should be witless and senseless, all that we
     maintain is that the caricaturists would in theatrical
     parlance “get all the laughs.” An instance in point is that
     the song of the hermit in _Paw Clawdian_ neatly written by
     Mr. Burnand, and capitally sung by Mr. E. D. Ward, although
     received with hearty merriment, by no means threw the
     audience into the convulsions provoked by Mr. Toole’s
     appearance as Mr. Wilson Barrett. It is not the perversion
     of motive and character, not the curious piling of pun upon
     pun, which makes the success of modern travesty. What is
     looked for is a clever presentment of the surface
     peculiarities of the serious artist, such as those of the
     Misses Linden in _Silver Guilt_, _Stage Dora_, and _Paw
     Clawdian_, in which by turns Miss Eastlake, Madame Sarah
     Bernhardt, and Mrs. Bernard Beere were parodied with
     exceeding cleverness. It is only a few nights since Miss
     Farren “brought down the house” by her brilliant caricature
     of Mr. Kyrle Bellew, as Gilbert Vaughan in _Called Back_.

     The amusement to be obtained from putting counterfeit
     presentments of statesmen, lawyers, and soldiers upon the
     stage has been forbidden in theatres properly so-called, and
     is only endured in music-halls in a modified shape. Plenty
     of fun in the worst possible taste could be produced by this
     ancient expedient, but as public opinion and police reasons
     forbid it, recourse is had to the device of hoisting the
     histrion with his own petard. All the clever devices of his
     own art, all his mysteries of “make-up,” and his talent for
     characterization, are devoted to the object, not of
     parodying either Shakespeare or Sardou, but the aspect of
     their creations embodied by the foremost artists at present
     on the stage.

                         Isaac Watts, D.D.,

      _Born at Southampton in_ 1674. _Died November_ 25, 1748.

                              ――――――――

  AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF.

  How doth the little busy bee
    Improve each shining hour,
  And gather honey all the day
    From every opening flower.

  How skillfully she builds her cell,
    How neat she spreads the wax,
  And labours hard to store it well
    With the sweet food she makes.

  In works of labour or of skill
    I would be busy too;
  For Satan finds some mischief still
    For idle hands to do.

  In books, or work, or healthful play,
    Let my first years be past;
  That I may give for every day
    Some good account at last.
                                    DR. WATTS.

                             ――――――――

                             THE FLEA.

The flea, so called because it always “flees” the foe, is an
industrious insect, and has been immortalized by Dr. What’s-his-name
in those beautiful lines commencing:

  How doth the busy little flea
    Improve each starry night,
  And gather food from you and me
    With all his little might.
  How skilfully it hops away,
    When it we try to squeeze;
  And waits until the close of day
    Its hunger to appease.

The flea may be said to come under the denomination of “game,” being
eagerly hunted by various animals, and especially by woman. To see a
woman flea-hunting is a never-to-be-forgotten sight. What ardour
glistens in her eyes! what determination is shown in her mouth! It is
probably the only time in a woman’s life when she doesn’t know, or
doesn’t care, whether her back-hair is up or down; and if she _does_
catch the flea, the pride of the successful fox-hunter is small in
comparison with hers.

The flea’s favourite song is “Put me in _your_ little bed.”

                              ――――――――

       HYMNS FOR CHILDREN.

  How doth the ever busy wasp
    Improve the shining hour;
  His object ever is to grasp
    The sweets of fruit and flower.

  To dip his beak into the peach,
    To pierce the ripen’d plum;
  To suck whatever is in reach,
    To sting whoe’er may come.

  So, children, you should ne’er forget
    This insect’s happy toil;
  Before you his example set,
    And what you can’t eat, spoil.

_Punch_, September 25, 1852.

                             ――――――――

         THE NORTHERN BEE.

  How doth the busy Russian _Bee_
    Improve the darkened hour,
  And kindly hope it will _not_ see
    The fall of England’s power.

  How skillfully it frames the “sell,”
    Forgives Crimean whacks,
  And owns JOHN BULL does pretty well
    Whate’er he undertakes.

  So now, let Russia, with a will,
    The works of peace pursue;
  For Satan finds some mischief still
    For soldier-States to do.

  In laying down the Iron Way,
    Be her next century passed,
  And then, who knows, the world may say――
    “She’s civilised at last.”

_Punch_, October 10, 1857.

                             ――――――――

               CONVIVIAL SONG.

  _To be sung Sloughly, and with expression._

  How doth the dizzy DISRAELI
    Improve the dining hour,
  And draw the long bow fearlessly
    To show his elbows power.

  How neatly he prepares the sell,
    How deftly cooks the facts!
  And for what others have done well,
    Himself the credit takes.

  What perils with what art and skill
    He’s pulled the country through!
  What wonders will his India Bill,
    If we believe him, do!

  So with the farmers he makes hay
    Ere yet his Sun be past;
  For though e’en Dizzies have their day,
    Not long that day can last.

_Punch_, June 19, 1858.

                              ――――――――

[This appeared shortly after Mr. Disraeli had been addressing the
electors of Slough.]

     ON A BEE I’VE BEE(N) TO.

  How doth the lively Spelling Bee
    Delight the evening hour,
  And bother folks of each degree――
    Sweet maids and spinsters sour.

  Hard names that few have ever heard
    Are bandied round pell-mell;
  And NUTTALL finds some crack-jaw words
    That _not all_ folks can spell.

  With BUTTER, MAVOR, VYSE, each day,
    Let my spare time be pass’d;
  So at the Spelling Bee I may
    Win some nice prize at last.

_Judy_, March 15, 1876.

[Published when the mania for Spelling Bees was at its height.]

                              ――――――――

                       CHAP. I.――ON INDUSTRY.

With what singular persistency of purpose does that diminutive and
laborious creature, the Bee, turn to account every minute of sunshine!
The construction of her cell is a marvel of insect architecture; and
if you were to attempt to spread wax with the same neatness and
regularity, you would no doubt fail in the most ignominious manner. At
least, I know _I_ should; for I was only the other day sealing a
letter when I burned my fingers dreadfully. I am aware that bee’s-wax
is not sealing-wax; but still if I had used bee’s-wax to fasten my
envelope, I daresay I should have made just as bad a mess of it, or
worse. Then again, look how the Bee labours to store those octagonal
chambers with the saccharine food she is all the day gathering from
roses, tulips, candytuft, pelargoniums, pansies, pinks, hollyhocks,
fuchsias, heliotropes, marigolds, dahlias, begonias, lupines, lilies,
daffydowndillies, and, in short, every opening flower. I can’t help
thinking that if the whole of one’s time was passed in books or work,
or even healthy athletic pastimes, such, for example, as hop-scotch,
dominoes, tossing the caber, knurr and spell, coddams, cricket,
rounders, peg-top, prisoner’s-base, noughts-and-crosses, Aunt Sally,
cribbage, nine-pins, Indian clubs, fly-the-garter, boxing, balancing
tobacco-pipes on the tip of one’s nose, skimming half-pence at cats or
attic windows, turning Catharine wheels in the road, or putting the
stone, we might haply give as good an account of every day as our
little friend the Bee could do, if so required. (Since the foregoing
was committed to manuscript, I have met with some similar ideas in
verse, by a Dr. What’s-his-name. I do not, however, think it necessary
or desirable to cancel my own original reflections on a subject which,
after all, is quite open to anybody.)

_Punch._

                              ――――――――

        DR. WATTS ON ASTHMA.
       (_Vide Advertisement._)

  How doth the little busy wheeze
    Augment from hour to hour,
  And gather “stuffiness” all day,
    With forty “bad-cold” power!

  How skilfully it clogs each cell,
    How strongly it attacks!
  And labours hard both cad and swell
    To lay upon their backs.

  It calls for all the doctor’s skill――
    Apothecary’s too too――
  And Satan finds decoctions still
    For ’prentice hands to brew.

_Funny Folks_, July 21, 1877.

                              ――――――――

  A SIMPLE RHYME FOR THE 5TH DECEMBER.

  How doth the busy Parliament
    Improve each shining hour,
  By talking, talking, night and day,
    With twenty-magpie power.

  How doth the savage Gladstone rise,
    Ambition to pursue,
  And rave of Russia, India, and
    Of Afghanistan too.

  How doth the angry Radical
    Delight to bark and shriek;
  How oft he tries a lion’s roar,
    And only makes a squeak.

  How doth the loyal Englishman
    All snarling curs deride,
  And in the present Government
    Implicitly confide.

_Judy_, Jan. 4, 1879.

                              ――――――――

      WATTS’ HUMOUROUS POEMS.

  How doth the little crocodile
    Improve his shining tail,
  And pour the waters of the Nile
    On every golden scale!

  How, cheerfully he seems to grin,
    How neatly spreads his claws,
  And welcomes little fishes in
    With gently smiling jaws!

_Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, by Lewis Carroll, (London
Macmillan and Co.)

                              ――――――――

         THE LITTLE MOSQUITO.

  How doth the little Mosquito
    Delight to buzz and bite,
  And make the terrors of the day
    Ten times as bad at night.

  How buzzily (busily) it flits on wing,
    And ’lighting on your nose,
  It makes you feel its quick, sharp sting
    When you’re trying for to doze.

  How skilfully it dodges round;
    And when you try to “bust” it,
  Flies away and likes to see
    And hear how you have cuss’d it.

  But thank the Lord the time will come
    When they’ll have no work to do,
  And you will find they’re “busted some,”
    And Mosquitoes will be few.

  So go your way and rest content,
    That they away have “flew,”
  But mind that by this time next year
    They’ll find some work to do.
                                       TOBY.
_Icycle_, The Wheel World Annual, 1880.

                              ――――――――

                   AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE.
                     (_After_ DOCTOR WATTS.)

_By an_ ENTHUSIASTIC LAND-LEAGUER, _specially gifted in teaching the
young idea how to_ shoot.

  How doth the honest Land-League man
    Improve each shining hour,
  An’ gather money all the day
    Wid all his might an’ power!
  How carefully he guards his _sell_,
    How neatly showers his _whacks_,
  An’ labours hard to please PARNELL,
    An’ dodge the law’s attacks!

  No works of labour tax our skill,
    Yet we’ll be busy too,
  The Land-League has some mischief still
    Our idle hands can do.
  In Boycotting an’ suchlike play,
    Let all our days be past.
  Begorra! we may have to pay
    A long account at last!!

_Judy_, March 9, 1881.

                              ――――――――

          THE COAL-HOLE TOP.

  How doth the little coal-hole top
    Its slipperiness disguise,
  And feet on bootless errands send
    So often to the skies!

  The little schoolgirl steps on it
    With an elastic gait;
  But ere she can step off again
    She sits upon her slate.

  The little boy with pail of milk,
    Treads on it “just in play.”
  He sees some stars. The passers-by
    Gaze on the “milky way.”

  The belle, with rich embellishment,
    Comes up with mincing tread,
  Her shoes are made of best French kid;
    Her stockings clocked with red.

  The big policeman, proud, erect,
    With gum shoes on his feet,
  Disguises it with confidence,
    How quick he’s off his beat!

  The granger with his cowhide boots:
    “By thunder! Did you see
  How spry that little iron thing
    Got out from under me.”

  No matter what the size of feet,
    Nor with what they are shod,
  The coal-hole top has never yet
    With uprightness been trod.

_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.

                              ――――――――

      “DOCTOR WATTS” IMPROVED.
     (_From a Sea-side Lodger._)

  How doth the little busy Flea,
    Disturb each silent hour,
  And all night long, most wickedly
    Our wearied limbs devour.

  How cruelly he breaks our rest,
    How wroth he makes us wax,
  When, jumping from his hidden nest,
    He bites our tender backs.

  Now, had it been in works like these
    That my first years were past,
  I must have come, like little Fleas,
    To no good end at last.

  For so, the little cruel Flea,
    By those who would have slept,
  Will――drowned, or burnt, or headless be,
    Unpitied and unwept.

_Punch_, October 18, 1884.

                              ――――――――

          CHILDREN’S CORNER.

  How doth the very Bizzy B.[43]
    Improve each shining hour,
  Annexing isles in every sea
    To cripple England’s power.

  How skilfully he plans his schemes,
    How well he times each blow,
  While in his chair Lord Derby dreams
    That all is _comme il faut_!

  Possessed of such a dauntless will
    Would we’d one Bizzy too,
  Or Satan find less mischief still
    For Liberals’ hands to do.

_Moonshine_, January 1885.

                              ――――――――

              THE BEE.

  How doth the gorging greedy Bee,
    Destructive little brute,
  Hum all day long from tree to tree,
    And spoil the choicest fruit!

  Behold how deep she scoops a cell,
    When peaches she attacks,
  In nectarines and pears as well,
    How big a hole she makes!

  Likewise to eat and drink my fill,
    I should be happy too;
  For Nature has disposed me still
    But little else to do.

  In prog and grub, by turns with play,
    Might all my life be past,
  Till I, perhaps, should come to weigh
    Good fourteen score at last.

_Punch_, October 9, 1875.

                              ――――――――

              THE WOPS.

  How doth the wobbling, wily wops
    Improve each shining hour!
  Within the peach he slyly stops,
    And stings with all his power!

  How skilfully he wheels around,
    And maidens makes afraid;
  He loves to clear the pic-nic ground,
    And roll in marmalade!

  The whispered charm of lover’s talk