Chapter XX: Act II: SCENE I.――Room in Polonius’ House

_Enter POLONIUS and OPHELIA._

_Oph._――O, dear Papa, I’ve been in such a fright!
Sewing just now a button on your night――

_Pol._ [interrupting],――My love, I blush!

_Oph._―― (Well you know what I mean)
In came Lord Hamlet, anything but clean!
Pale as his hose, or Hosier’s Ghost the rather;
His stockings were so very dirty, Father
His old and seedy neckerchief awry!

_Pol._――My daughter, reverence an _ancient tie_.

_Oph._――Unbrac’d his doublet! And O, such a hat!

_Pol._――I know it well: _the Prince invented that_![35]

_Oph._――Uncomely, and uncombed about the head,
I don’t believe he’d really been in bed;
Or, if he had been, why he’d been and slept
In that bin where the Palace flour is kept.
And then his boots! At those I up and spoke:――
“Is then _the Warren stopp’d_ and has _Day broke_?
Go to the scraper! to the door-mat run!
Our _Turkey’s_ getting rather _overdone_.”

_Pol._――And did the scraper clear him from his scrape?

_Oph._――By no means――with a look, black as the crape
Upon his four and ninepenny, he came
And took my hand; and then he press’d the same
Which seem’d to do him good――for then he smil’d――
And came it strong, and wouldn’t draw it mild――
In fact he kiss’d me!

_Pol._―― O, the man is mad!

_Oph._――For kissing me! I can’t see that, my dad!

_Pol._――Well, on reflection, ’tis not strange my puss!
Being in a hurry, why he took _the Bus_.

_Oph._――A _stage box_ on that _bus_ he might have ta’en.
But since to be his debtor I disdain,
I would not keep his kiss but gave it back!

_Pol._――Bestowed, in short, another kind of _smack_.

_Oph._――His was a blunder-bus, and so my sire,
A small _salute_ I from my _smack_ did fire.

_Pol._――What did he say?

_Oph._―― He never told his love,
But look’d it most uncommon!

_Pol._―― Like a dove
With a sore throat; What then?

_Oph._―― O such a sigh!

_Pol._――You prick’d him with your needle.

_Oph._―― No, not I!
O, such a sigh, my Father, as would fill
The great Nassau Balloon, or turn a mill.

_Pol._――Few men can raise the wind like that, my duckey!
And then what next?

_Oph._―― The Prince, Pa, cut his lucky.

_Pol._――He’s mad, and mad for love of you.

_Oph._―― O la!
How very nice! can madmen marry, Pa?

_Pol._――Doubtless, my daughter. Nay, it has been said
None are quite _compos_ when about to wed.
I do remember much confusion here [_pointing to forehead_]
When first I called your future mother “dear,”
Saw Hymen’s torch-light in her glowing e’e,
And _caught her eyes a cauterising_ me,
And O, the pride, when first in joyous vein,
“Mrs. Polonius!” I said――“Champagne?”
To which she answered (every word I treasure)
“Aaron Polonius, I will with pleasure.”

POLONIUS _sings_. _Air_――“_The light of other days._”

But all that sort of thing has faded,
The honeymoon’s o’ercast!
The horse, you know, is soonest jaded,
Who goes at first too fast!
The very deuce no long time after
She play’d upon my life;
And all our mirthsome love and laughter,
She turn’d to weary strife.

_Pol._――Yes! Love is like some grand new Railway Line
Which (the Prospectus tells us) must combine
All the advantages to railways known,
With much peculiar merit of its own:
How easy, then the gradients to our sight,
Surveyed thro’ Cupid’s false Theodolite.
Trivial the outlay, small the risks appear
(For then our telescope’s invert). But near,
And huge the profits to our eye, for Hope
Lends us her Hydrogen Gas Microscope.
Mammas, as managing directors, sit;――
Hear our petition, and the Act permit;――
Our Scrip, the License, then we proudly claim;
And Hymen’s Company enrols our name!

_Oph._――What then, Papa?

_Pol._―― The newly-married pair
_Pay_ their _first calls_――a somewhat _triste_ affair!
Awhile the shareholders in peace repose;
Dream Love’s young Dream――and all’s _couleur de rose_
Till, on the waking ear (and purse) shall fall,
Fearful and frequent the loud _railway call_!

_Oph._――What does that typify?

_Pol._―― In married life,
The shrill accostals of a scolding wife!
Who, like an engine, when she’s _on the rail_
At every obstacle must shriek and wail;
Who like an engine (do not sneer my daughter)
Cannot get on unless she’s _in hot water_;
Who like an engine――

_Oph._―― O, I do beseech
This _train_ of thought some Terminus may reach!
Rake out your fire! or damp it: shall I ring
For liquors?

_Pol._―― No! If you would sooth me, sing!
Cut out the Lind! for Denmark loves indeed
To have a little _turn-up_ with the _Swede_!
Ophelia mia, beat that “Figli-a
Del Reggimento!”

_Oph._―― I’ve sore throat, Papa!

_Pol._――These singer’s ailment all _lie in their throats_!
Stick some “Pulmonic _Wafers_” on your _notes_.
Now to the Palace, for the king must know
This news of Hamlet.

_Oph._―― Yet, before you go――
For dear Mama, myself, and sex combin’d,
I’ll quote some verses just recall’d to mind:

“When you were that unpleasant thing,
A baby, who would smile and sing,
‘The like o’ this hath never bin’”?

_Pol._――[_abruptly_] My Mother!

_Oph._――Who thought that nothing would suffice
But costly lace on frocks so nice,――
And dare not tell Papa the price?

_Pol._――[_less abruptly_] My Mother!

_Oph._――Who told the tale, in twilight gloom?
Who read of witch astride her broom,
And poor Cock Robin’s early tomb?

_Pol._――[_somewhat affected_] My Mother!

_Oph._――Who lov’d you, a mischievous boy?
Who spread the jam? who bought the toy?
Rejoicing in your every joy?

_Pol._――[_much affected_] My Mother!

_Oph._――If aught went wrong who bore the blame?
Who wept, when first the “half-year” came?
Who sent _those_ hampers, fruit and game?

_Pol._――[_with epicurean empressement_] My Mother!

_Oph._――Who when you wrote some doggrel verse,
Crimson with pride assured old nurse,
‘That parts of Milton were much worse?’

_Pol._――[_as conscious of genius_] My Mother!

_Oph_.――Who when the loutish age began,
And boyhood’s thoughts on razors ran,
Call’d you ‘the gentlemanly man?’

_Pol._――[_pulling up his collar, as though the maternity
had well spoken_] My Mother!

_Oph._――Who when they “pluck’d” you in the schools
At “Little Go” ’bout Grammar Rules,
Stoutly maintained “the Dons” were fools?

_Pol._――(_approvingly_) My Mother!

_Oph._――Who, in your youth’s hot giddy day,
Revealed a better brighter way
And kindled first-love’s glorious ray?

_Pol._――[_fondly_] Your Mother!

_Oph._――Who upon earth, who only, knows
Th’ exact location of your clothes?
Who marks your linen? darns your hose!

_Pol._――[_gratefully_] Your Mother!

_Oph._――Who best your pipe and glass can fill?
Whose _taper fingers_ light the spill?
Who, if you’re poorly, knows _Pa’s_ pill?

_Pol._――[_ruefully._] Your Mother!

Oph.――Who, when in sulky mood you fret――
P’raps kick your corn, or lose a bet――
Sings still, “We may be happy yet!”

_Pol._――[_cheerfully._] Your Mother!

_Oph._――What tho’ sometimes o’er married life
A cloud may come, a moment strife.
Who makes the sunshine?

_Pol._――[_enthusiastically._] O my wife!
Your Mother!
Who checks her Daddy in his spleen?
Who makes his brow once more serene?
And bids him say, “I’ve hasty been?”

_Pol._――[_embracing._] My Daughter!

_Pol._――Woman for ever! Scold they as they will,
Marriage! with all thy faults, I love thee still!

_Exeunt to Music._
_Air_――“_Here’s a health to all good lasses._”

――――:o:――――

In 1839 Messrs. Whittaker & Co., of Ave Maria Lane, London, published a quarto volume entitled “The Barrow Diggers, a Dialogue in imitation of the Grave Diggers in Hamlet.” The work, which was published anonymously, had numerous illustrations of Barrows found in various parts of the country, and of the Antiquities, Arms, Pottery, and human remains found in them. The parody relates entirely to the excavations in the Barrows, carried on by antiquaries in search of curiosities, and the notes explanatory of the parody, form the chief and most interesting portion of the work.

SCENE. A Barrow on a Common.
_Enter three Barrow Diggers with spades, shovels, &c._

1st B. D.――Is this a Roman, or a British Barrow?

2nd B. D.――I tell thee ’tis a British Barrow, therefore straightways
open it; Antiquarius hath set on it, and finds it British
Burial.

1st B. D.――How can that be, if Roman Ornaments and arms should here
be found?

2nd B. D.――They may be found.

1st B. D.――It must be Roman, it cannot be British Burial. For here
lies the point; if Roman arms and ornaments are found in
it, it argues a Roman Act; and a Barrow Act hath three
Branches, to Act, to Dig, to Shovel; we go to work
willingly.

3rd B. D.――Nay; but hear you good friend!

1st B. D.――Give me leave. Here is a Common; good; here is the Barrow;
good; if the Barrow contains Roman Arms, or urns, it must
be a Roman Barrow; mark you that; but if spear heads made
of flints, and British Arms are here, it must be a
British Barrow; if nought but an empty cist, _tumulus
inanis_, (or an empty tomb raised by the Romans in memory
of a friend whose body could not be found.) He that is
not inclined to dig, shortens not our work.

2nd B. D.――But is this Barrow Law?

1st B. D.――Ay, marry is’t Antiquarius’s Barrow Law.

2nd B. D.――Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had been a Roman
relic of funeral pomp, it would have been a very
different sort of Burial. The Romans raised not Barrows
o’er their Dead.

1st B. D.――Why there thou say’st: and the more pity that great folks
shall countenance the grandeur of gaudy funerals, more
than their poorer neighbours. To my mind they are mighty
like representations of Death carrying off his wealthy
victims in Triumph. Come my spade, There are no antient
gentlemen, but Gardeners Geologists, and Barrow Diggers;
they hold up Adam’s profession.

3rd B. D.――Was he a Gentleman?

1st B. D.――He was the first that ever bore Arms, a mattoc shovel,
and a spade.

2nd B. D.――Why he had none.

1st B. D.――What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the
Scripture? The scripture says, Adam digged. Could he dig
without arms? I’ll put another question to thee; if thou
answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself.

3rd B. D.――Go to work.

_After having taken an observation with a Compass, and marked out a section, they commence opening the Barrow._

1st B. D.――What is that earthly form all skin and bone, which eludes
the Sexton, the Mason, and the Carpenter?

2nd B. D.――The Living Skeleton, for that fragile frame outlives a
thousand Harry’s.

1st B. D.――Now where is he?

2nd B. D.――Eating soup maigre!

1st B. D.――Eating soup maigre! Where?

2nd B. D.――Not where fat King’s are eaten: a certain convocation of
politic worms are e’en at them. Your worm is your only
Emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us;
and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat King and your
lean skeleton is but variable service; two dishes, but to
one table that’s the end.

1st B. D.――Alas! alas! shall I feed worms when I am dead?

2nd B. D.――Ay, and a living skeleton may fish with the worm that
hath eat of a King; and eat of the fish that hath fed of
that worm.

1st B. D.――What dost thou mean by this?

2nd B. D.――Nothing but to show you how a King may go a progress
through the carcase of a living skeleton.

1st B. D.――I like thy wit well in good faith. To’t again; come, what
is this Barrow?

2nd B. D.――Cudgel thy brains no more about it; when you are asked
this question next say ’tis a British Barrow, a house
that will last till doomsday. Go get thee to Shapwicke,
and fetch me a stoup of liquor.

_1st Bar. Dig. continues Digging and Sings_

Britons rais’d an earthy mound,
When e’re their Chieftains died,
And I am digging under ground,
Where delvers have not tried.

_Antiquarius and Discipulus enter._

ANT.――Has this fellow no feeling of his business, he sings at Barrow
opening?

DIS.――He knows not that he treads on hallow’d Mould!

ANT.――’Tis e’en so, the hand of Antiquaries only hath the Barrow
Sense.

1_st Bar. Dig. continues Digging and Sings_;

Clasps, Celts, and Arrowheads, I’ll try
To claw within my Clutch,
And if a Shield I should espy,
I’ll vow there ne’er was such.
With Popish Tricks, and Relics rare,
The Priests their Flocks do gull
In casting out the earth take care,
Huzza! I’ve found a skull!

ANT.――That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the
knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were a slave’s
jaw-bone, or that of the first Murderer! That might be
the pate of a Druid which this ass now o’erreaches: one
that would gorge his Deities with human blood; might it
not?

DIS.――It might.

ANT.――Or of a Warrior, who could say kill and burn Captives to
appease the Dead.

DIS.――Ay, Antiquarius! or it might be a Slave’s!

ANT.――Why even so; and now my lady Worm’s chapless and knocked about
the mazzard with a Sexton’s shovel. Here’s fine
revolution an’ we had our spectacles to see’t, Prodigious
to think on’t.

1_st Bar. Dig. continues digging and sings_

A Mattoc, Shovel, and a Spade,
Will dig up human bones;
To play at Marbles Britons made,
Some small round Portland Stones.
If Casques we find, or iron arms,
Of curious form and make,
Why surely they’re Roman charms,
Your British creed to shake.

ANT.――Cease prattler cease! Why should they not be the Casques,
arms, or Bosses of British Chieftains in Roman service?
No golden filagree work nor carved ivory; No amethystine
Beads, nor Crystal Balls, no Coins, no Medals, no
well-formed urns, nor colour’d stones from Rome will here
be found; but Tin, Glass, or Amber Beads, the Tusks of
Boars, or unbaked Urns of rudely shape with limpet shells
will denote ’tis a British Barrow.

1_st B. D. continues Digging, and comes to a Cist, and sings_

This Cist of Chalk just like a grave
For such a guest is meet,
As if asleep here rests the brave,
Below the turf three feet.

ANT.――How independent the knave is! How long hast thou been a Barrow
Digger?

1st B. D.――Of all the Ages of the World I came not to’t in that Age
when the whole Earth was in a state of Fusion.

ANT.――How long’s that since?

1st B. D.――Cannot you tell that? Every mechanic can tell that. It
was that very day that young Pluto was born: he that was
a Geologist. He that gave a New System by Posting through
the bowels of the Earth in his chariot drawn by four
Horses.

ANT.――Ay, marry! how did he do that?

1st B. D.――With Lucifer Matches.

ANT.――Why?

1st B. D.――Because he was mad after Proserpine.

ANT.――Peace I pray you! How long will the jaws of a Leviathan, or
the bones of a Megatherium, lie in the earth e’er they
crumble into dust?

1st B. D.――Faith if they be not fused in Pluto’s crucible for many
thousand years.

[The remainder of the conversation relates to a controversy, now well-nigh forgotten, as to the identification of a skull said to have been that of Eugene Aram, who was executed at Tyburn, in 1759 for the murder of Daniel Clark. At the Newcastle Meeting of the British Association in 1838, a skull was produced as that of Eugene Aram, but as it had passed through many hands during the eighty years that had elapsed since his death, its authenticity was much questioned, especially as one eminent anatomist declared it to be the skull of a female.

In quoting this imitation of a scene from Hamlet, justice can hardly be done to the scarce volume from which it is taken, without quoting the instructive explanatory notes which accompany it.

Since 1839 great strides have been made in the general knowledge of the subjects this book deals with, yet considering the date at which it was produced it is remarkable not only for the facts it records, but for the theories it advances.

Barrows are artificial heaps of earth, sometimes surrounded by a narrow trench. They were reared by the early inhabitants of these isles, and their contents afford almost the only insight we have into the history of the Ancient Britons. Antiquaries are generally agreed that they were raised for sepulchral interments, as in them are usually found cists, with urns, human bones, spear and arrowheads of flint, hammers, and celts of stone, beads, buckles, pins, etc.

The Cists, which vary in size and shape from two to eight feet deep by three and four feet in diameter, are usually cut in chalk, and contain the urns, skeletons, etc.]

――――:o:――――

SHAKESPEARIAN READINGS.

Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where,
To be a cold obstruction and to groan!
This sensible, warm woman, to become
A prudish clod, and the delighted spirit
To live and die alone, or to reside
With married sisters, and to have the care
Of half a dozen children, not your own;
And driven, for no one wants you,
Round about the pendant world; or worse than worst,
Of those that disappointment and pure spite
Have driven to madness: ’Tis too horrible!
The weariest and most troubled married life
That age, ache, penury, or jealousy
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To being an old maid.

――――――――

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,)
Walking between the garden and the barn,
Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took
At a young chicken, standing by a post,
And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,
As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.
But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot
Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,
And the domesticated fowl passed on,
In henly meditation, bullet free.

――――――――

My father had a daughter got a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I good looking,
I should, your lordship.
And what’s her residence?
A hut, my lord, she never owned a house,
But let her husband, like a graceless scamp,
Spend all her little means,――she thought she ought,――
And in a wretched chamber, on an alley,
She worked like masons on a monument,
Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed?

From _Poems and Parodies_, by PHŒBE CAREY, Boston, U.S., 1854.

――――:o:――――

BENJAMIN CÆSAR REDIVIVUS.
(_On the recovery of Lord Beaconsfield from an attack of gout_).

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

_Fiz_, January 18, 1879.

――――:o:――――

AN IRISH PLAYBILL.
_Kilkenny Theatre Royal._
By His Majesty’s Company of Comedians.

The last night, because the Company go to-morrow to Waterford.

On Saturday, May 14, 1793, will be performed, by command of several
respectable people in this learned metropolish for the benefit of
Mr. Kearns, the tragedy of

HAMLET.

Originally written and composed by the celebrated Dan Hayes, of
Limerick, and insarted in Shakespeare’s works.

Hamlet, by Mr. Kearns (being his first appearance in this character),
who, between the acts, will perform several solos on the patent
bagpipes, which play two tunes at the same time.

Ophelia, by Mrs. Prior, who will introduce several favourite airs
in character, particularly “The Lass of Richmond Hill” and “We’ll
all be unhappy together,” from the Reverend Mr. Dibdin’s
oddities.

Polonius, the comical politician, by a young gentleman, being his
first appearance in public.

The Ghost, the Gravedigger, and Laertes by Mr. Sampson, the great
London comedian.

The parts of the King and Queen, by directions of the Rev. Father
O’Callaghan, will be omitted, as too immoral for any stage.

The characters to be dressed in Roman shapes.

To which will be added an Interlude, in which will be introduced
several sleight-of-hand tricks by the celebrated surveyor, Hunt.

The whole to conclude with the Farce, by Mr. Kearns, of

MAHOMET.

Tickets to be had of Mr. Kearns, at the sign of the Goat’s Beard, in
Castle-street.

AS YOU LIKE IT.

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.

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

AS YOU LIKE IT.――Act II.――Scene III.

――――:o:――――

THE STAGE COACH COMPANY.

――――MOTLEY is a Stage;
Where men and women all are passengers.――
They have their middle and their corner seats;
Which no one on the road presumes to change,
Altho’ close-wedg’d with seven! And first the _Lap-child_,
Mewling and pewking o’er your shoes and boots.
And next the down-cast _School-Boy_, with his boxes,
And pockets shilling-fill’d――and large plum cake,
Which somewhat sweetens school! And next the _Ensign_,
Cramming hot-rolls, and eyeing, at each cup,
Molly, who serves the breakfast.――Next a _Slumberer_;
Full of sour wine, with ill-look’d, unshav’d beard,
Rolling his noddle, sudden in naps and wakings,
Seeking the banish’d, chaste sobriety,
Ev’n in the jolting coach!――And then the _Vicar_,
In sloping belly, with fat tithe pig lin’d;
With grizzled wig, and silken scarf-form’d vest,
Strew’d with rappee; his elbows lifted high,
’Tis so he digs your ribs!――The sixth niche shows
A meagre, mortified, warm-wrapp’d _Old Maid_;
With morning cap snug-drawn, and muff up-held,
Her curving nose and chin, seeking approach,
The sole good _points_ she shews, and her shrill voice
Pour’d forth against the boldness of the age,
Full oft repeats the theme!――Last plac’d of all,
Which ends this “Worshipful Society,”
Sits a young Nymph, in ev’ry thing reverse,
Sans sleeves, sans coats, sans cap, sans everything!

From _Fugitive Verse and Prose_, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester, 1803.

――――:o:――――

THE PATRIOT’S PROGRESS.

――――St. Stephens is a stage,
And half the opposition are but players:
For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects,
Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts,
Their acts being sev’n. At first the Demagogue,
Railing and mouthing at the hustings’ front:
And then the cogging Candidate, with beer,
Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to voters
Unwillingly a pledge. And then the Member,
Crackling like furnace, with a flaming story
Made on the country’s fall. Then he turns Courtier,
Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife,
Pleas’d with all rulers, zealous for the church,
Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy,
Ev’n from the _Canon’s_ mouth. And then a Secretary,
In fair white waistcoat, with boil’d chicken lin’d
With placid smile, and speech of ready answer,
Lib’ral of promises and army contracts,
And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings him
To be a snug retired old baronet,
With ribband red on breast, and star on side:
His early zeal for change a world too hot
For his cool age: and his big eloquence,
Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes――
And we must pay the piper. Scene the last,
That ends this comfortable history,
Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage,
With cash, with coronet――with all but conscience.

From _Posthumous Parodies_, published by John Miller, Bow Street, London, 1814.

――――:o:――――

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

――――“The world’s a stage,”
And Man has seven ages,”――
So Shakespeare writes (king of dramatic sages!)
But he forgot to tell you, in his plan,
That Woman plays her part, as well as Man.

First, how the Infant heart with triumph swells,
When the red coral shakes its silver bells;
She, like young statesmen, when the rattle rings,
Leaps at the sound, and struts in leading strings.

Next, little Miss, in pinafore so trim,
With nurse so noisy, and mamma so prim;
Eager to tell you all she has learned to utter,
Lisps as she grasps the allotted bread and butter;
Type of her sex, who, though no longer young,
Holds everything with ease――except her tongue!

A Schoolgirl then, she curls her hair in papers,
And mimics father’s gout, and mother’s vapours;
Tramples alike on customs and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows:
“Betty” (she cries), “it comes into my head,
Old maids grow cross, because their cats are dead;
My governess has been in such a fuss
About the death of her old tabby puss;
She wears black stockings! Ha! ha! what a pother
’Cause one old cat’s in mourning for another!”
――The child of Nature, free from pride and pomp,
And sure to please, though nothing but a romp.

Next, riper Miss, who, nature more disclosing,
Now finds some traits of art are interposing;
And, with blue laughing eyes behind her fan,
First acts her part with that great actor――Man!

Behold her now――an ogling vain Coquette,
Catching male gudgeons in her silver net;
Whilst the fair forehead tresses, frizzled full,
Rival the tufted locks that grace the bull!

Then comes that sober character――the Wife,
With all the dear distracting cares of life;
A thousand cards a thousand joys extend,
For what may not upon a card depend?
Now she’ll snatch half a glance at opera, ball,
A meteor traced by none, though seen by all;
’Till “spousy” finds, while anxious to immure her,
A patent coffin only can secure her.

At last the Dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles, she folly trounces,
And, moralising, thus the age denounces:
“How bold and forward each young flirt appears!
Courtship, in my time, lasted seven years;
Now seven little months suffice, of course,
For courting, marrying, scolding, and divorce;
They say we have no souls; but what more odd is――
Nor men nor women now have any bodies!
When I was young, my heart was always tender,
And would, to every spouse I had, surrender;
Their wishes to refuse, I never durst,
And my fourth died as happy as my first!”

Truce to such splenetic and rash designs,
And let us mingle candour with our lines:
In all the stages of domestic life――
As child or sister, parent, friend, or wife――
Woman, the source of every fond employ,
Softens affliction, and enlivens joy.
What is your boast, male rulers of the land?
How cold and cheerless all you can command!
Vain your ambition, vain your wealth and power,
Unless kind woman share the raptured hour;
Unless ’midst all the glare of pageant art,
She adds her smile, and triumphs in your heart!
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE SEVEN STAGES OF ÆSTHETICISM.

――――All the world’s Æsthetic,
And all the men and women merely æsthetes;
They have their yearnings and their ecstasies;
And each man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven stages. First, the Philistine,
Sneering at Art’s high transcendental charms;
And next the clinging Pupil, with his lily
And elongated chin, gliding like snake
To study in the school. Then, the Acolyte,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful sonnet
Made to a dado. Then, the full-fledged Poet,
Full of strange whims, long-haired as Absalom,
Jealous of fame, profuse of attitude,
Seeking the bubble reputation
E’en at the tea-pot’s spout. Then, the Professor,
With bilious mien and clothes not wisely cut,
His monologues quite too idealised,
Bursting with Culture and the Infinite;
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
Into the lank and velvet-suited Humbug,
With nippers on his nose and tuft on chin;
His mystic style, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk audience; while his croaky voice,
Striving again to rouse to rapture, seems
But senseless in its sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is utter idiotcy and mere oblivion,
Sans mind, sans taste, sans Art, sans everything.

[This parody was quoted in “The Æsthetic Movement in England” by Walter Hamilton (Third Edition, Reeves and Turner, London 1882), in which work will be found full particulars of the peculiar form of Art revival here satirised. Though the cant of Æstheticism is fashionable no longer, the good that was effected by the serious devotees of the worship of Beauty and Culture is very visible in our domestic architecture, our house decorations, furniture, and china, as compared with the styles in vogue thirty years since.]

――――:o:――――

THE SEVEN AGES OF INTEMPERANCE.

――――All the world’s a bar room
And all the men and women merely tipplers:
They have their bottles and their glasses;
And one man in his time takes many quarts,
His drink being seven kinds.――At first the infant,
Taking cordial in the nurse’s arms;
And then, the whining school-boy with his drop
Or two of porter, just to make him creep
More willingly to school.――And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, o’er his lemonade
Brewed into whisky-punch.――Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and reeling mad with brandy.
Brutal and beastly, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the fiend Intemperance
E’en in the gallon’s mouth.――And then the justice
In fair round belly, with Madeira lined,
Most elegantly drunk, superbly corned,
Full of wise saws against the use of gin,
And so he swallows wine.――The sixth drink
Shifts into the lean and bloated dram-drinker,
A spectacle his nose, he’s scorched inside;
The wretch’s ragged hose, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank: and his once manly hand,
Shaking the cup of tea, well lined with rum,
Seems now five palsied bones. Last drink of all,
That ends intoxication’s history,
Is laudanum, self murder’s long oblivion
Sans Faith, sans Hope, sans Life, sans everything.

_The Comic Magazine._ Fourth series 1834.

――――:o:――――

JAQUES IN CAPEL COURT.

――――All the world are stags!
Yea, all the men and women merely jobbers!
They have their brokers and their share-accounts,
And one man in his time tries many lines,
The end being total ruin. First, the greenhorn,
Dabbling and dealing in a lucky spec;
And then the prosperous seller, with his profits
And joyous winning face, buying like mad,
Unwilling to sell out; and then, the loser,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful prospect
Of the next settling day! Then the director,
Full of strange schemes, and lodged at the west-end,
Keeping a cab, and sudden growing rich,――
Getting a bubble reputation
Even in Capel Court. And then the bankrupt,
With his debts’ schedule large, and no assets:
By all his decent friends entirely cut,――
Full of bad scrip, and fertile of fresh schemes;
And so he plays his game. The sixth step sinks
Into the low and herring-gutted stag,
With spectacles on nose and list in hand;
His youthful gains all spent, the world too wide――
――Awake to be ta’en in, and his long line
Of hapless creditors that idly wait
And whistle for their cash. Last scene of all,
That ends this sad but common history,
Is――Union pauperism, and oakum picking;
Sans beer, sans beef, sans tea, sans everything.

_Punch_. November 1, 1845.

[This was published during the period of the Railway Mania, when speculation in the new Railroad stock was at its height. One of the entrances to the London Stock Exchange is in Capel Court, and it is a favourite rendezvous for Stockbrokers, and their clients. _Stags_, in Stock-Exchange phraseology, are persons who apply for shares in a newly formed Company, not because they wish to hold the shares, but because they hope to sell the allotment at a premium.]

――――:o:――――

THE POETRY OF STEAM.

――――The world’s ruled by Steam,
And all the men and women are its subjects:
It guides their movements and their whereabouts;
And this steam, in its time, plays many parts,
Its acts being Seven Ages. At first, the kettle,
Hissing and sputtering on a kitchen hob,
And then NEWCOMEN’S Engine, to its piston,
By atmospheric pressure, giving force
Imperfectly to pump; Then WATT’S condenser;
More economic, with its stuffing box
And double acting movement: Then a steam-boat,
Full of strange smells, and cramm’d like NOAH’S ark,
(It, on high pressure, sudden and quick to explode)
Raising up FULTON’S reputation
In every body’s mouth: Then the steam horse,
By STEPHENSON devised, on Wall’s End fed,
With boiler grimed and――wheels of clumsy cut,
Spurning brass knobs, and copper ornaments――
And so he plays his part. The Sixth age shifts
Into the war of broad and narrow gauge;
BRUNEL on one, HUDSON on t’ other side――
Their several lines stretching a world too wide
For the Committees, and Steam’s manly voice,
That, in the kettle’s childish treble piped,
Now whistles o’er the world. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is general brotherhood, and mere oblivion
Of troops, of wars, of blood, and all such things.

_Punch_, July 25, 1846.

――――:o:――――

THE SEVEN AGES OF THE REPUBLIC.

――――France is a stage,
And all her heroes little more than players.
Her Kings their exits have, and entrances;
And the Republic runs its round of parts,
Its acts being seven ages. First, Young France,
_Emeuting_ and plotting, e’en in the nurse’s arms;
Then _ouvrier_ out of work, casquette on head,
And frowning hairy face, going, in faith,
To LOUIS BLANC to school. Then LAMARTINE,
Spouting away, writing a score of sonnets
Unto Dame Liberty’s eyebrow; then _Mobile_,
Clapped in strange clothes, and bearding barricades,
Zealous against old friends in sudden quarrel,
Taking a sight at death and devastation
E’en in the cannon’s mouth; then CAVAIGNAC,
In power despotic and a state of siege,
With frown severe, and beard of Algiers cut,
O’er-riding Law with a soldier’s insolence――
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shows
Poor Liberty, with Constitution weak,
Halting ’twixt Anarchy and Despotism,
Her youthful _bonnet rouge_ a world too wide
For her shrunk brains, and the big boastful voice,
Turning again to the old treble, pipes
LOUIS NAPOLEON in. Last scene of all
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans trade, sans tin, sans press, sans everything.

[This Parody appeared in _Punch_, November 25, 1848, at which time the form of government in France was nominally Republican, though very unsettled. King Louis Philippe had been forced to abdicate in February, 1848, and a republic was proclaimed, of which Louis Napoleon (afterwards Emperor) was elected President. Around the Parody were seven illustrations, drawn by the celebrated Richard Doyle, representing “Young France mewling and puking in the Nurse’s arms;” “The Ouvrier creeping like snail unwillingly to school;” “Lamartine inditing a sonnet to Liberty’s Eyebrow;” “The Garde Mobile seeking the Bubble reputation in the Cannon’s mouth;” “The Justice with eyes severe,” a portrait of General Cavaignac; and, last scene of all, poor France with her feet in Hot Water, and Louis Napoleon in the back ground carrying the fatal _Idées Napoliennes_, which finally brought him, and his country, to defeat and ruin.]

――――:o:――――

ALL THE TOWN’S A SLIDE.
(_A Parody for the Frost._)

――――All the town’s a slide,
And all the men and women merely skaters.
They have their slippings and their flounderings,
And one man in his life has many falls:
His fate having seven stages. At first, the infant,
Shivering and shaking in his nurse’s arms;
And then the shuffling school-boy, with his highlows
And hobnailed sole and heel, cutting-out slides
Instead of going to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, till with woeful tumble
He and his mistress lie low. Then a soldier,
Wearing odd skates, and bearding all the park;
Jealous of others, sudden and quick in turning,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the deepest holes. And then the iceman
In fair round hat, with a good cape on, lined
With oilskin clear, and coat of formal cut,
Full of ice-saws and modern instruments;
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage slips
Into the lean and slippery pantaloon,
With icicle on nose, and stick in hand,
His India-rubber shoes a world too large
For his shrunk feet; and his poor trembling knees
Straggling apart like childish helplessness,
He tumbles on the ground! Last scene of all
That ends this cold and frosty history
Is a sharp wind――upsetting everyone,
Sans stick, sans cloak, sans hat, sans everything.

_Punch_ 1850.

――――:o:――――

THE SEVEN AGES OF A PUBLIC MAN.

――――Public Life’s a stage,
And all the men in office merely players:
They have their characters and salaries
And one man in his course plays many parts,
And acts through seven ages. First the infant,
High born, inheriting a coat of arms,
And then the Public School-boy, with his satchel,
And shining lot of fag, going by rail,
Uncaringly to school; then the Collegian
Boating and driving, with a comic ballad,
And supercilious eyebrow. Then the Patriot
Full of strong oaths, and moustached like the pard,
Anxious for honour, not disposed to quarrel
With any decent situation,
Suffice that can one’s mouth. And then the Member,
Quoting old saws and modern instances,
In fair round paunch, with public dinners lined;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered Minister;
With spectacles, and prose, and votes on side,
His youthful views renounced, a world too wide
For his shrunk wits and his once manly voice,
Trying in vain to hoax the people, pipes
A miserable sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this sad disgraceful history,
Is childish Red-tapism, and mere routine:
Sans heart, sans brains, sans pluck, sans everything.

_Punch_, May, 1855.

――――:o:――――

CATALOGUE OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

――――All the thing’s a farce,
And all the time and labour merely wasted.
It has its entries and its indexes,
And one man with his time plays but the fool
In poring o’er the pages. First the Volume,
Bulky and ponderous in the porter’s arms,
And then the heavy binding, with its edges
And greasy leather backs, letting it slide
Gradually to the ground. And then the titles,
Mixed up like hodge-podge――here a book of ballads
Publish’d by BEALE or BOOSEY. Then a quarto,
Full of strange types, and letter’d all in black,
Printed on vellum――ancient in type and paper,
Cramming the author’s reputation
Right down the student’s mouth. And then the law-book
In pale brown calfskin, with gross humbug lined,
With rules severe, and forms of rigid cut,
Full of strange laws and musty precedents:
And so this forms a part. The volume shifts
Like change to clown or slipper’d pantaloon,
To subjects no one knows――from side to side
The eye may roll――the topics are too wide
To be embraced――and the loud public voice,
Turning again to childish treble, pipes
And whistles for its wants. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange mysterious catalogue,
Is perfect uselessness and mere oblivion,
_Sans_ head――_sans_ tail――in fact, _sans_ everything.

[In these lines, which appeared a good many years ago, Mr. Punch was unduly severe on the Catalogue of the British Museum, which is a marvel of industry, and accuracy. By the system adopted it is only necessary to know the name of an author to be able to procure any of his works, and should any difficulty arise the courteous Librarians and attendants are ever ready to render the most valuable assistance.]

――――:o:――――

THE SEVEN AGES.
_By Mincing Lane Esq._,

――――Mincing-lane’s a stage,
And all the workers there are merely _players_:
Each plays the part his manager may choose,
And in his part must mind his P.’s and Q.’s――
His acts being seven ages. At first the boy,
Untimely breeched in galling corduroy;
His eyes wide opened, and his lower jaw
Meekly depressed in reverential awe――
Bound for three miserable years to do
A shopboy’s drudgery without his screw,
Then the meek junior, with a moonlike face,
Creeping like snail unwilling to his place,
Sleepy from last night’s going to the play
And youthful soakings of convivial clay.
And then the lover, in resplendent scarf
And gorgeous pin, and boots too tight by half,
Spending with her he loves in lanes――away
From town――his one brief blissful holiday,
Seated in cosy arbour with his lass,
Pledging his love in cups of sparkling Bass.
And then the Volunteer, with gun in hand,
Scaring invaders from his native land,
Seeking, good man, the bubble reputation
In hebdomadal perambulation
In quiet spots――his partner by his side
Taking his youthful progeny for a ride.
And then the market clerk――rotund is he;
A man of substance; knowing to a T
What shares are discount, premium, or par――
What “mule twist” was, and what “grey shirtings” are:
And so he plays his part. The next age shifts
Into the book-keeper who seldom lifts
His eyes from off his book――who measures time
Not by the grass covered with glist’ning rime,
Nor song of blackbirds, nor the budding May,
Nor scent of meadows filled with new-mown hay,
Nor falling dew of autumn time――yet stay,
He notes the falling due of quarter-day.
Last scene of all that ends this strange career
Is utter friendlessness. Not one kind tear
On his account philanthropists can wring;
He dies sans home, sans friends, sans everything.

_The Hornet_, January 1, 1868.

――――:o:――――

THE POLITICIAN’S SEVEN AGES.

[The seven ages of a politician might be enumerated somewhat as follows. It may be necessary to premise that _Cranbourne Alley_ was the name given by the profane to the followers of Lord Salisbury, then Lord Cranbourne, when he voted against the Ministerial Reform Bill.]

――――At first the _Tory_,
Pompous and prosing in his elbow chair;
And then the doubtful _Dizzyite_, with suffrage,
And firm belief in rates,――sneaking, like lamb,
Quite patiently, to “school.”

Then _Cranbourne Alley_,
Sighing for novelty, with woeful back-glance
Made at the Tory benches.

Then the _Liberal_
Full of strange whims, and reckless as a Rad;
Jealous for office, sudden at wrong conclusions;
Seeking the bubble alteration,
E’en gainst his country’s welfare.

Then the _Brightite_,
With fair round periods, with bad logic lined;
With ayes and noes aye in minority;
Full of wise schemes, and wild philosophy:
And so he plays his game.

The sixth age shifts
Into the _Beales_ and _Potter Demagogue_,
With banner overhead, and pole in hand;
His common sense all gone,――the world too small
For his bold flight;――his once persuasive voice,
Turning tow’rds pot-house politicians, rants and vapours to a mob.

Last scene of all,
That generally ends this history,
Is second Toryism, or utter lassitude;――
Sans hope, sans care, sans mind, sans everything.

_Once a Week_, June 27, 1868.

――――:o:――――

THE SEVEN AGES OF ACTING.

1. First the Infant mewling and puling in the dresser’s arms――waiting
to go on at eighteenpence a night.

2. Then the Pantomime Imp, with his whistle and dirty morning face,
crawling like snail unwillingly to rehearsal.

3. And then the _Jeune Premier_, smoking like a furnace, with woeful
bad legs. “Made-up,” too, in moustache and eyebrows.

4. Then the Melodramatic Artist, full of strange oaths, bearded, and
wearing pads, jealous in liquor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
seeking bubble reputation, even at an East-end theatre.

5. And then the Low Comedian, in big ulster, with good flannel lined.

6. Sixth age, scene shifts, and at Christmas plays the lean and
slippered pantaloon. The wardrobe hose, a world too wide for
his shrunk shank.

7. Last scene of all in this strange, eventful history in second-
sightedness, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans
everything――but hot gin toddy.
WALLIS MACKAY.
_St. Stephens’ Saturnalia_, December, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE SEVEN AGES OF LOVE.

Man in his day loves many times and oft,
For Nature’s made him uncontent with one;
He breathes a hundred vows in accents soft
Ere on the earth his pilgrimage is run.

First comes the baby, in his nurse’s arms,
With button mouth stretched wide for pap-filled spoon;
Or else with clutching fingers, eager palms,
Waiting and weeping for his love――the moon.

The schoolboy next, with hungry, longing gaze
Fixed on the face of one of thirty years;
Unversed, as yet, in guileful worldly ways,
Bemoaning youth with bitter sobs and tears.

Later the man, all furious in Love’s pains,
Yet humbly sighing soft on bended knee;
Swearing his heart out that the globe contains
But one adorable and perfect she.

And then the soldier, fierce in love as fight,
With twirled moustache and rugged, sun-browned cheek,
Claiming young Beauty as the warrior’s right,
Then scorning conquest as a passing freak.

The Justice next, with pockets golden lined,
With money bags to lure and satyr leer;
Resolved at fifty years a maid to find,
As wife for two and nurse for twenty years.

Sixth stage, the pantaloon, wan, shrunk, and thin,
With limbs half paralysed and senses numb,
Chucking the nurs’ry maid beneath the chin
And mumbling nonsense with a toothless gum.

Last scene of all. Blear-eyed, with shrivelled neck,
Laid by, for Death to claim, upon the shelf;
A fretful, peevish, crabbed, and cross-grained wreck,
Loving but one thing, and that one thing――self.

So wags the world! From life’s first blush of light,
Through happy morning to bright afternoon,
Till falling shades of evening lead to night――
And love?――The last is self, the first the moon!

_Judy_, January 19, 1881.

――――――――

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.
_By a Cantankerous Old Curmudgeon._

――――All the world’s a Wardrobe,
And all the girls and women merely wearers:
They have their fashions and their fantasies,
And one she in her time wears many garments
Throughout her Seven Stages. First, the baby,
Befrilled and broidered, in her nurse’s arms.
And then the trim-hosed schoolgirl, with her flounces
And small-boy scorning face, tripping skirt-waggling,
Coquettishly to school. And then the flirt,
Ogling like Circe, with a business _œillade_
Kept on her low-cut corset. Then a bride
Full of strange finery, vestured like an angel,
Veiled vaporously, yet vigilant of glance,
Seeking the Woman’s heaven, Admiration,
Even at the Altar’s steps. And then the matron,
In fair rich velvet with suave satin lined,
With eyes severe, and skirts of youthful cut
Full of dress-saws and modish instances,
To teach her girls _their_ part. The sixth age shifts
Into the grey yet gorgeous grandmamma,
With gold _pince-nez_ on nose and fan at side,
Her youthful tastes still strong, and worldly wise
In sumptuary law, her quavering voice
Prosing of Fashion and _Le Follet_, pipes
Of robes and bargains rare. Last scene of all,
That ends the Sex’s _Mode_-swayed history,
Is second childishness and sheer oblivion
Of youth, taste, passion, all――save love of Dress!

_Punch_, May 20, 1882.

――――:o:――――

There are many other parodies of this speech. One was contained in a burlesque operatic tragedy performed at the Lyceum Theatre in July, 1812, entitled “Highgate Tunnel, or the Secret Arch,” of which the argument was that “All the world’s a stable.” Unfortunately this play is not to be found in the Library of the British Museum, consequently the parody cannot be reproduced, but the following, on the subject of _Carriages_, is of a somewhat kindred nature. It is taken from _The Sporting Times_ of April 18, 1885, but is here given without the illustrations which embellished it, when it first appeared, in that sportive, and very facetious journal:

THE SEVEN CARRIAGES OF MAN.

“All the world’s a stage, &c., &c.,
And one man in his time tries many traps.”

First, the baby in _his_ carriage. Observe the animal’s expression,
he is mewling and puking.

Next comes the schoolboy on his tricycle. Special attention has been
bestowed on his “shining morning face.”

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
On tricycle to school.

Then the lover, in spite of proctors and bulldogs, tries to drive a
very scratch tandem with the idea of impressing the lady of his
heart for the time being.

And then the lover.
Who in scratch tandem drives a Tottie
With golden hair and jet black eyebrows.

The soldier, full of strange oaths as in Willy Shakespeare’s
time, but not now bearded like a pard――_vide_
Queen’s Regulations, sec. vii., par. 20――drives the regimental
coach.

The justice stows “his fair round belly” into a
brougham. A view of the said lower portion of his bosom
is obtained through the window.

The lean and slippered pantaloon hides his infirmities in
a bath chair.

And, last carriage of all, the hearse, in which we all
take our final drive.

An economic funeral ends the list
Sans plumes, sans mutes, sans pall, sans everything.

――――:o:――――

A fortnight later the same paper contained another parody, on the same speech, entitled _The Seven Drinks of Man_, and fortunately for the readers of “Parodies” the Editor of “The Sporting Times” has kindly lent the wood engravings which accompanied it. These distantly remind one, in their effects of light and shade, of some of the best works of Rembrandt, and whilst it may perhaps be said that they lack in execution, in conception they are immense.

THE SEVEN DRINKS OF MAN.

――――“All the world’s a bar,
And all the men and women merely drinkers.”

“First the infant, mewling and pewking in his nurse’s arms, and
for his bottle crying.”

Then the schoolboy, quaffing his ginger-beer,
Until “he well nigh bursts.”

“Then the lover, with a woful ballad,
Made to his mistress’ eye-brow ’neath the subtle inspiration of
the Boy.”

“Then the soldier, slaking his parched throat,
Made dry by last night’s mess, with many a brandy and soda.”

“Then the justice, with fair, round belly,
With good claret lined.”

“The lean and slippered pantaloon,
Who, with his feet in foot-bath, sits and drinks his gruel.”

“Last drink of all, beef-tea.”
I feel quite mixed after the variety.――Yours,
P.M.T.

_The Sporting Times_, May 2, 1885.

――――:o:――――

AS YOU LIKE IT.

“Rosalind MRS. LANGTRY.”――_Playbill._

Crutch, in cosy box enshrin’d,
Showers bouquets on Rosalind;
Gallery is not behind
In its praise of Rosalind;
Common “pro’s” for years may grind,
Not so gentle Rosalind.
Beauty and high birth combin’d
_Must_ produce a Rosalind!
Where can we an equal find
To our latest Rosalind?
Critics sour and critics kind
Battle over Rosalind.
To the charms who can be blind
Of this pretty Rosalind?
Streets with carriages are lined,
Audiences for Rosalind,
Braving chill September’s wind
For the sake of Rosalind;
Rank and fashion, lately dined,
Flock to feast on Rosalind.
But I can’t make up _my_ mind,
To accept this Rosalind!

_Judy_, October 4, 1882.

――――:o:――――

Poetry and snow do not blend well. Sleet extinguishes all _feu sacré_ in the bard. Early one morning last week, when a few gentle flakes were falling, I thought of the song of my friend Amiens in “As you Like It,” and laughing at the elements, attempted a rough parody of the first verse. It was as follows:――

Blow, blow thou Winter wind;
Snow, too, if so inclined:
I cannot change your mood.
I’ll order Toddy hot
And drink of it a lot――
The strongest can be brewed.
Heigh ho! Sing heigh ho! Away with melancholy.
To grumble at the weather is nought but folly.
Then heigh ho! The holly!
This life is most jolly.

(_An interval of six hours is supposed to elapse._)

Freeze! Freeze! The wind _does_ blow!
I’m “Boycotted” by the snow,
I search and search in vain
For cab, or bus, or train.
Miles off is home――and worse,
I’ve no coin in my purse!
In the snow, sing heigh ho! to the green folly
Of a fellow feigning to be happy or jolly.
Heigh ho!
’Tis folly, by golly!
To hope to be jolly!
ANONYMOUS.

ROMEO AND JULIET.

――――:o:――――

A BACHELOR.

(_After Romeo’s description of an apothecary._ Act v. Scene i.)

I do remember an old BACHELOR,
And hereabouts he dwells――whom late I noted
In suit of sables, with care worn brow,
Conning his books――and meagre were his looks:
Celibacy had worn him to the bone;
And in his silent parlour hung a coat,
The which the moth had used not less than he.
Four chairs, one table, and an old hair trunk,
Made up its furniture; and on his shelves
A grease-clad candlestick, a broken mug,
Two tablets, and a box of old cigars;
Remnants of volumes, once in some repute,
Were thinly scattered round, to tell the eye
Of prying stranger――_this man had no wife_.
His tatter’d elbow gap’d most piteously;
And ever as he turned him round, his skin
Did through his stockings peep upon the day.
Noting his gloom, unto myself I said,
“And if a man did covet single life,
Reckless of joys that matrimony gives,
Here lives a gloomy wretch would show it him
In such most dismal colours, that the shrew,
Or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse,
Were each a heaven compared with such a life.”

_The Maids, Wives, and Widows Penny Magazine_, October 27, 1832.

――――――――

I do remember a cook’s shop――
And here about it stands――him late I noted
In tuck’d up sleeves, with night cap o’er his brows,
Cutting up joints――pleas’d were his looks,
The fatt’ning trade had cover’d well his bones,
And in his reeky shop a sirloin hung,
A buttock stuff’d; nice tripe, and other strings
Of well spic’d sausages――and upon his board
A sovereign remedy for empty stomachs,
Green peas and ducks, pork, steaks, and mutton chops,
Remnant of goose, pigeon-pye and plates of ham,
Were amply set out to make up a show,
Noting this plenty to myself I said;
An’ if a man did need a dinner now,
Whose dainty smell is present appetite,
Here lives a greasy rogue would cater one.
If I may trust the flattering truth of nose,
This should be Porridge Island――
Being twelve o’th’clock――the knives and forks are laid.

――――――――

I do remember a young pleader,
And hereabouts he dwells; whom late I noted
In coat once black, with overwhelming brow,
Pondering o’er cases――sallow were his looks,
And midnight thought had worn him to the bone;
And in his sombre chambers lay confused,
Black dusty papers, “general issues” here,
“Demurrers special” there――matter apt to teach
That, to our noble law, justice and form
Alike are dear――and o’er his shelves
A beggarly account of dusty volumes――
Wentworth, and Coke, and Saunders――old editions all,
With a few numbers of the late reports,
Were thinly scattered to make up a show.
Noting his little practice, thus I said:
“An’ if a man would patch a rotten case,
Give to transaction dark a face of snow,
Here lives the lawyer that might draw the pleas,
Oh! this same thought doth but forerun my need――
I have a cause, and will retain him quickly,
As I remember, this should be the chamber;
But it not being term the door is closed.”
What, ho!

From _The Poetical Note Book and Epigrammatic Museum_; by GEORGE WENTWORTH, London, 1824.

――――:o:――――

The following parody was written by Robert Surtees, Esq., M.A. F.S.A., author of a history of the County Palatine of Durham:――

I do remember a strange man, a herald――
And hereabouts he dwells――whom late I noted
In parti-colour’d coat like a fool’s jacket,
Or morrice-dancer’s dress――musty his looks,
Like to a piece of ancient shrivell’d parchment,
Or an old pair of leather brogues twice turn’d;
And round the dusky room he did inhabit,
Whose wainscot seem’d as old as Noah’s ark,
Were divers shapes of ugly, ill-formed monsters,
Hung up on scutcheons like an old church aisle――
A blue boar rampant, and a griffin gules,
A gaping tyger, and a cat-o’-mountain,
What nature never form’d, nor madman dream’d,
Gorgons and hydras and chimæras dire;
And straight before him lay a dusty heap
Of ancient legers, books of evidence,
Old blazon’d pedigrees and antique rolls,
(Which made full oft the son beget the father,
And give to maiden ladies fruitful issue.)
Torn parish registers, probates, and testaments――
From which, with cunning art and sage contrivance,
He fairly culled divers pedigrees;
And next, by act of transmutation rare,
Did change his musty vellum into gold――
For straight comes in a gaudy city youth,
(Whose father, for oppression and vile cunning,
Lies roaring low in Limbo lake the while,)
And straight depositeth some forty guineas,
And after some few words of mystic import,
Of Mowbray, Howard, Vere, Plantagenet,
And other necromantic terms of art,
Most gravely utter’d by the smoke-dried sage,
He takes, in lieu of gold, the vellum roll,
With arms emblazon’d and Earl Marshal’s signet,
And struts away, a well-born gentleman.
Observing this, I to myself did say,
“And if a man did need a coat of arms,
Here lives a caitiff that would sell him one.”

――――:o:――――

THE SHAKESPEARE OF THE PERIOD.

Shakespeare _pur et simple_ will soon be beyond the comprehension of audiences accustomed to burlesque, sensation drama, and the cancan. An enterprising manager (we believe he thinks of turning Somerset House into a theatre, with hotel accommodation, so that visitors from the country can take a ticket, including entrance, supper, bed, and breakfast) has offered a prize for the best modern version of Shakespeare’s plays. We have been favoured with a perusal of the M.S.S. sent in, and give the following versions of the balcony scene in _Romeo and Juliet_, without the kind permission of the authors:――

ROMEO.

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND T. W. ROBERTSON.