Chapter XXII: Act 2: ――SCENE 2.――Terrace and grounds of Capulet Castle Balcony, L.,

with flowers on stand, and vine trees climbing up sides. Wall, R., on which grows real stone fruit. Italian view at back (to be painted on the spot.) _Enter Retainers._

GRAND DANCE OF THE PERIOD BY A HUNDRED REAL VERONESE.

(_Exeunt Retainers._

Enter ROMEO, dropping from wall by aid of a branch. Presently JULIET
appears. They talk (but never mind the dialogue.) Enter Watchmen.
They struggle with ROMEO. JULIET throws flower-pots at watchmen.
Exeunt Watchmen, with broken heads. Here the lovers might speak; but
perhaps words will only delay the action. CAPULET enters with
Retainers. ROMEO is bound to a tree. During struggle JULIET descends
from balcony by aid of vine, and fills Retainers’ muskets with water
from a patent garden tube. CAPULET and Retainers retire. They point
their muskets at ROMEO, CAPULET gives the word, but the muskets are
harmless. JULIET picks up pruning knife and releases ROMEO. They are
discovered. ROMEO is again a prisoner, when he tells CAPULET that
amongst the papers to be opened at his death is the last will of
CAPULET’S father, leaving all to charity. The old man blesses his
children, and for a time, at least, the lovers are happy. But there
are more sensations to come.

_The Grasshopper_, July 1, 1869.

――――:o:――――

MERCUTIO’S DESCRIPTION OF QUEEN MAB.

_Mercutio._――Here comes Romeo――poor fellow he’s mooney
Sweet on Rosaline! Oh, regular spooney,――
Found him this morning at the lady’s door,
Waving up kisses to the second floor――
Radiant with joy, as Phœbus or Aurora,
Wooing with warm smiles a _second Flora_!
And then unto his lady love he played
Upon the Jewish harp a serenade;
While ever and anon there came a flow
Of voice with “Sweep!” and then of “Milk below!”

_ROMEO enters in a melancholy mood._

_Mercu._――His bosom swells, the heavy sighs rise on it;
The man’s in love――that’s about the _size_ on it.

_Romeo._ (_taking out photograph and kissing it_)――
Sweet Rosaline!
Nor yet as sweet by half
As represented in this photograph.
The sun was envious of those dainty hands――
So fist-like has he drawn them――and he brands
The sweetest smile that ever heart did win,
In likeness of a silly sort of grin!

_Mercu._ (_looking over his shoulder_)――
Sixpence in frame complete, that’s about it.

_Romeo._――Now there you’re wrong, my friend; perhaps you doubt it?
But fourpence is the figure now-a-days――
The _walks_ of art are now but common _ways_.

(_Kisses photograph and sighs._)

_Mercu._――Good Romeo, are you ill?

_Romeo._―― Yes, I’m queer.

_Mercu._――Where do you feel it?

_Romeo._ (_laying hand on heart_) Oh! I feel it here.

_Mercu._――Oh! you are in love――over head and ears――
But why so sad? Your eyes are set with tears,
When you should smile.

_Romeo._―― Rosy!

_Mercu._――Pooh! forget her.
You’ll see some other girl you’ll like much better.

_Romeo._――I’ve dreamt a dream――Oh! ’twas a horrid dream!

_Mercu._――Queen Mab’s been with your worship, it would seem.
She is the very deuce, and goes to work
By aid of pickled salmon and roast pork;
Sits on the stomach of an Alderman;
O’er every drowsy sense does hold her ban.
Her waggon-spokes of grill’d and devilled bones,
Her wheels give out a constant sound of groans;
Her whip, a knotted lash of champagne wires;
Her chariot, a stew-pan wrapped in fires;
Her shouts are pepper, and her oaths are spice;
She’s something nasty, after something nice.
In fact, my buck, to speak out plain and fair,
What you’ve been suffering from is the nightmare!

This extract is taken from “_Romeo and Juliet Travestie_, or the Cup of Cold Pison,” by Andrew Halliday.

The burlesque was produced at the Strand Theatre, on Thursday, November 3rd, 1859, when the part of _Romeo_ was taken by Miss C. Saunders, whilst Miss Marie Wilton (now Mrs. Bancroft) performed _Juliet_, “a belle whom all the young fellows in Verona are anxious to ring.”

――――――――

At the end of the burlesque the ghost of Shakespeare rises, frowning, and holding up his finger menacingly.

_Mercutio_.――I see it’s Shakespeare.
He’s angry with us.

_All._―― Pray what have we done?

_Romeo._――His noble tragedy we’ve turned to fun;
And he don’t like it.

_All._―― Oh, what shall we do?

_Apothecary._――Some of you speak to him. Romeo, you
Are the hero here, face it out――dare him,
Soften him over a bit.――you know――square him!

_Romeo._ (_going up to him_)――
I’ll try. Immortal bard――illustrious Swan of Avon,
Towards you, we own, we have not been behavin’,
With that respect which we should like to pay,
But the fact is, if we essayed your play,
As you did write it――the boxes and the pit
Would say we could not act the play a bit.
And so that _with_ us, not _at_ us they may laugh,
We’ve winnowed your fine _corn_ into _chaff_.

(_SHAKESPEARE bows._)

_Nurse._ (_going up_)――Another thing you must remember, Poet,
You wrote burlesques yourself, and well you know it.
In “The Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

(_SHAKESPEARE disappears._)

――――――――

Messrs. T. and G. Shrimpton, of Broad Street, Oxford, published another burlesque on this tragedy. It was entitled “Romeo and Juliet; or the Shaming of the True;” an Atrocious Outrage perpetrated at Oxford, by the St. John’s College Amateurs, during Commemoration, 1868. The author’s name is not given.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

――――:o:――――

A burlesque of “The Merchant of Venice” was produced at the Olympic Theatre, London, on Monday July 4th, 1853. It was entitled “_Shylock or, the Merchant of Venice Preserved._ An entirely new reading of Shakespeare, from an edition hitherto undiscovered by modern authorities, and which it is hoped may be received as the stray leaves of a _Jerusalem Hearty-Joke_.”

This burlesque was written by Mr. Francis Talfourd with a special view to furnishing F. Robson, with a character adapted to his peculiar abilities, and _Shylock_ suited him admirably.

There are however no distinct parodies of any passages of the original which could be quoted without making long extracts. This is unnecessary, as the burlesque can be readily obtained from the theatrical publishers.

_Bassanio._ What find I here?
(_Opening the leaden casket._)
Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips,
Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs
The painter plays the spider and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,――
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his
And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look, how far
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow
In underprizing it, so far this shadow
Doth limp behind the substance.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, Act III. Scene II.

――――:o:――――

_Bassanio_. What find I here?
Fair Portia’s counterfeit? What demi-god
Hath come so near creation, and what
Doth the demi-god, forsaken caitiff, charge
Per dozen? Move these eyes? Or, whether riding
On the balls of mine, seem they in motion?
Ask me an easier one.

Here are severed lips parted with sugar breath;
Wonder if Jones――but, no! Perish
The thought! And, also, perish Jones,
The ringboned, spavined Jobberwock,
If ever I do catch him hereabouts again!

Here in her hair the painter plays the spider,
And hath woven a mesh to entrap
The hearts of men, one of whom am I,
By a large majority, and several counties
And unbribed districts to hear from.

But her eyes! How could he see to do them?
Having made one, methinks it would have power
To steal both his――Ah! blessed thought! I’ll steal
Her picture, now I hear her foot
Upon the stairs!

_Merry Folks._

――――:o:――――

SONG.

Tell me where is fancy bred
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engendered in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy’s knell;
I’ll begin it,――Ding, dong, bell.

――――――――

SONG.

(DEDICATED TO THE AUTHOR OF “GERMAN YEAST.”)

Tell me what is Fancy Bread,
Is it alum, or white lead?
How begot, how fashioned?
Reply, Reply.
It is engendered from old bones
With glazing fed; the eater moans,
’Neath its weight his stomach groans;
Bread of Fancy, hear thy knell
Sounded by the Muffin-Bell;
Ding dong Bell.

_The Tomahawk_, November 9, 1867.

――――:o:――――

NURSEY.

_By a young and over-ambitious poet, on visiting the guardian of his childhood._

The jollity of Nursey is not feigned;
She hoppeth, as a genteel wren or raven,
Upon the neighbouring heath. I’m thrice caress’d;
Caress’d by her who used to bring me cakes!
She’s tidiest of the tidiest; and becomes
In face more youthful through revolving time.
Oft has she, in bygone temperate hour,
Dulled my young ears with jaw and minstrelsy,
And there she’d sit, and tell me queer odd things;
For Nursey used to love the spectred fay,
Foibles, since foiled by Cooke and Maskelyne;
But then, I somehow reck’d them true myself,
And in my mite mind murmured “what’s the odds
When Nursey’s reason just is?” Therefore you,
Though rather bored I see, remember this:
That grateful we should be, each one of us
For early teaching. So I say to Nursey
That her kind care doth prompt us all to tender
The deeds of Nursey!

_Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley. (Cambridge, Jones and Piggott, 1883.)

――――:o:――――

CALVES’ FOOT JELLY.

This quality of jelly must be strained,
And drop through bags like gentle dew from heaven;
And, when the right consistence is obtained,
By Portia ’tis to sick Bassanio given.

_Judy_, September 22, 1880.

MACBETH.

――――:o:――――

TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE
_Of the New Drury Lane Theatre._

GENTLEMEN,

Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of every body about me, and made me a burthen to my friends and a torment to Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite servants――that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook; and George Barnwell, his bookkeeper――I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woeful crisis, I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you inclosed a more detailed specimen of my case; if you could mould it into the shape of an address, to be said or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt, that I should feel the immediate affects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose.

I am, &c.,
MOMUS MEDLAR.

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

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell
(She knows that my purpose is cruel),
I’d thank her to tingle her bell
As soon as she’s heated my gruel.
Go, get thee to bed and repose――
To sit up so late is a scandal;
But ere you have ta’en off your clothes,
Be sure that you put out that candle.
Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.

My stars, in the air here’s a knife!――
I’m sure it can not be a hum;
I’ll catch at the handle, add’s life!
And then I shall not cut my thumb.
I’ve got him!――no, at him again!
Come, come, I’m not fond of these jokes;
This must be some blade of the brain――
Those witches are given to hoax.

I’ve one in my pocket, I know,
My wife left on purpose behind her;
She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,
The poor Caledonian grinder.
I see thee again! o’er thy middle
Large drops of red blood now are spill’d,
Just as much as to say, diddle diddle,
Good Duncan, pray come and be kill’d.

It leads to his chamber, I swear;
I tremble and quake every joint――
No dog at the scent of a hare
Ever yet made a cleverer point.
Ah, no! ’twas a dagger of straw――
Give me blinkers, to save me from starting;
The knife that I thought that I saw
Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.

Now o’er this terrestrial hive
A life paralytic is spread;
For while the one half is alive,
The other is sleepy and dead.
King Duncan, in grand majesty,
Has got my state-bed for a snooze;
I’ve lent him my slippers, so I
May certainly stand in his shoes.

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales!
Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking!
For though a dead man tells no tales,
Dead walls are much given to talking.
This knife shall be in at the death――
I’ll stick him, then off safely get!
Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,
For he’d ne’er stick at anything yet.

Hark, hark! ’tis the signal, by goles!
It sounds like a funeral knell;
O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls
To call thee to heaven or hell.
Or if you to heaven won’t fly,
But rather prefer Pluto’s ether,
Only wait a few years till I die,
And we’ll go to the devil together.
Ri fol de rol, &c.

[This song is taken from the celebrated _Rejected Addresses_ by Horace and James Smith. The travesties on _The Stranger_ and _George Barnwell_, (referred to in the above introduction) possess little, or no interest now, as the originals are obsolete, and it may be said that neither of these three travesties is equal to the other clever poems contained in _The Rejected Addresses._]

――――:o:――――

INCANTATION. (1828).

_Scene._――Penenden Plain, In the middle, a caldron boiling.
Thunder――Enter three _Brunswickers_.

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

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

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

1_st B._――Round about the caldron go,
In the poisonous nonsense throw.
Bigot spite, that long hath grown,
Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Scott
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

_All._――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eldon, talk, and Kenyon scribble.

2_nd B._――Slaver from Newcastle’s quill
In the noisome mess distil,
Brimming high our Brunswick broth
Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill
Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel,
With that malty stuff that Chandos
Drivels as no other man does,
Catch (_i. e._ if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,
From my Lord of Salisbury
One idea, though it be
Smaller than the “happy flea,”
Which his sire, in sonnet terse
Wedded to immortal verse.[36]
Though to rob the son is sin,
Put his _one_ idea in;
And to keep it company,
Let that conjuror Winchelsea
Drop but _half_ another there,
If he hath so much to spare.
Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatch’d in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests, like Horner,
Purely for religious good,
Cry aloud for Papists’ blood,
Blood for Wells, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.

_All._――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley talk, and Kenyon scribble.

3_rd B._――Now the charm begins to brew;
Sisters, sisters, add thereto
Scraps of Lethbridge’s old speeches
Mix’d with leather from his breeches,
Rinsings of old Bexley’s brains,
Thickened (if you’ll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle, _nympha_ state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There――the Hell-broth we’ve enchanted――
Now but one thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o’er all that orange juice,
Castlereagh keeps cork’d for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Colour’d deep with blood of * * *
Blood, of powers far more various,
Even than that of Januarius,
Since so great a charm hangs o’er it,
England’s parsons bow before it.

_All._――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2_nd B._――Cool it now with * * * ’s blood,
So the charm is firm and good. [_Exeunt_.

THOMAS MOORE.

――――:o:――――

THE DERBY VOTER’S SOLILOQUY.
(_Spoken in a darkened doorway with his face to the wall._)

Is this a sovereign which I feel behind me.
Slipp’d gently into my hand? Come, let me sack thee:
Art thou not precious metal, sensible
To vision as to touch? or art thou but
A sovereign of the mind, a false sensation,
Proceeding from the beer-oppressed brain?
I feel thee yet, a coin as palpable
As this I now produce.
Thou hint’st to me the side whereon I’m going;
And such a candidate I am to choose.
My conscience is the weakest of my senses,
Which should rule all the rest. I feel thee still――
A blade that has no gudgeon in his blood,
I ne’er was sold before. Pooh! no such thing;
It is the freeman’s privilege which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now throughout all the land
Protection’s dead; and wicked bribes abuse
The voter’s trust; now COPPOCK celebrates
Corruption’s offerings; and cunning EDWARDS,
Subduing easy principle with pelf,
Prowls on the watch, and thus with hidden face,
The stumpy lavishes wide towards his design,
Mute as a post. Ye men of sense and worth,
Mark not my course, which way I vote, for fear,
My very looks show I’ve been tamper’d with;
And take the present honour from my name
That now rests with it. Whiles I yet shall live,
Votes I for treats and feeds and gold will give.
I go and plump anon: the chink invites me.
Hear it not, BERESFORD! for ’tis a knell
That summons thee to follow JACOB BELL!

_Punch_, August, 1852.

So great was the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” that many inferior imitations were issued, amongst them being a small Volume, entitled “Accepted Addresses” published by Thomas Tegg. In it are poems jocularly ascribed to Lord Byron, and Walter Scott, there is also a burlesque, entitled “_Macbeth Travestie_, in three acts. With Burlesque annotations, after the manner of Dr. Johnson, G. Stevens, Esq., and the various Commentators.” The author acknowledges that the favorable reception which attended the Travestie on _Hamlet_, by John Poole, gave him the suggestion for the undertaking, to which it must be said, it is much inferior. It contains no parodies of sufficient interest or merit to be quoted.

――――――――

There was another “Macbeth Travestie” in two acts, written by Francis Talfourd, and performed at Henley-on-Thames, on the day of the regatta, June 17, 1847. This was published by E. T. Spiers, of High Street, Oxford, it was afterwards produced, with slight alterations, at the Strand Theatre, on January 10, 1848; and again at the Olympic Theatre, on April 25, 1853, when the part of Macbeth was performed by F. Robson. The London Edition (published by Lacy) has a humourous preface by William Farren. The Incantation Scene (scene IV., act II.) commences thus:――

WITCHES (_singing_)

We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!
We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!
We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!
Macbeth to terrify!
Macbeth to terrify!
Macbeth to terrify!

It’s a way they had on the stage-oh!
When Melodrame was all the rage-oh!
The audience with spells to engage-oh!
So we’ll at a spell have a shy!
So we’ll, &c.

THE INCANTATION.

1_st_ WITCH.――Apron strings of old maids-tabbies;
Tongues of spifflicated babbies;
Joinville of a greasy gent,
Reeking with unhallowed scent.

2_nd_ WITCH.――Beards of maggots, maws of mummies,
Fingers of flue-strangled chummies
Heap in humbugs all to aid us――
Banjos, bones, and serenaders!

Holloway’s grease, and Frampton’s pills,
Fuel fierce of human ills
Mild emetics――one a dose is;
Seventy-seven street-sweepers’ noses!
Fashion new, that taste perverts――
See “_the last new thing_ in shirts!”
Slangy coats of aspect rare;
And the “gent’s real head of hair!”

ALL THREE.――Double, double, toil and trouble――
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!

_Enter MACBETH._

MACB.――That’s right, my hearties, keep the pot a boiling,
I trust I’m not a family party spoiling.
Perhaps you’ll tell me what it is you brew,
For I’ve dropped in to take _pot luck_ with you;
That is, I’d know my destiny; you see,
I’m not so easy as I’d wish to be.

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

MACB.―― _Read_? You know full well,
It takes you all you know to raise a _spell_.

2_nd_ WITCH.――Learn, Macbeth, for you’re haughtiness of late,
Yours is a sort of _horti_-cultural _fate_!

MACB.――No matter――let me know it!

1_st_ WITCH.―― If it ease you
But don’t blame me if what you hear don’t please you.

――――:o:――――

MAKING THE PUDDING.
_A Christmas Incantation._

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

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

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

1_st Witch._――Round about the pan then go,
In the flour and bread crumbs throw;
Salt and spice and suet add――
See the last named is not bad;
And with all your might and main,
Mix and stir and mix again!

_All._――Hark! the pot begins to bubble
We our labour must redouble.

2_nd Witch._――Plums and currants now we take,
And the sugar in we shake;
Candied peel and citron, too――
Get it fresh whate’er you do!
And ere any item sticks
Let us everything re-mix,

_All._――Never mind a little trouble,
Extra praise will pay us double.

3_rd Witch._――Now the eggs well beaten up
Pour in gently from a cup;
Add of milk a little drop,
And from stirring do not stop
Till the wooden spoon you pass
Through a well commingled mass.
Then when you can mix no more,
Over all the brandy pour,
None must idle then remain,
Each in turn must mix again.

_All._――True, it seems a lot of trouble
Ere it in the pot can bubble!

1_st Witch._――Now the basins we prepare,
Butter we each one with care,
Then with pudding them we fill,
And the cloth adjust with skill.
See the water’s boiling hot,
Ere we pop them in the pot,
And not wishing them to spoil,
For ten hours we’ll let them boil.

_All._――Now they’re in, the water bubbles!
Comes the end of all our troubles.

_Enter Mistress of the House._

_M. of H._――Well done, girls, I commend your pains,
One more duty only remains,
You must all join hands and sing
Like elves and fairies in a ring;
And what time your puddings boil
Sing, and thus forget your toil.
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE MODERN MACBETH.

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

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

MAC GLAD.――Here now methinks our ministry were safe,
Were the graced person of our Gordon here,
Him do I challenge for his obstinacy
In sticking at Khartoum.

JOE MAC C.―― His absence, sir,
Is hard upon the Government. Please you, sir,
To grace us with your everlasting speech.

MAC GLAD.――There is no seat.

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

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

JOE MAC C.―― What, Grand Old Man?

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

MAC GLAD.――Thou can’st not say I did it; never shake
Thy gory locks at me.

MRS. MAC GLAD.―― O my good lord!
Read the _Spectator_ and the _Daily News_,
So you shall see your veritable self
No murderer, but simply one who sent
A hero to his death, so you might gain
A fair majority; and now that’s done
You look but on a corse.

MAC GLAD.―― Aye, there’s the rub;
Blood I have shed ere now; blood must be shed
If I am to keep office; murders, too
Must be performed; but why does this man rise,
With thousands freshly massacred around him,
To push me from my place? The public curse
Is worse than murder.

JOE MAC C.―― By these affidavits,
So cheaply forged in famous Brummagem,
The Caucus lacks you.

[_Ghost disappears._

MAC GLAD.―― Oh, my perjured friends,
I have a strange infirmity: I see
Red spectres in the watches of the night,
Brave men I sent to death; but that is nothing
To those who vote for me! Here’s wine, fill high,
I drink a health to all my Cabinet;
And to our dear friend Gordon whom we miss:
Would he were here! But yet methinks he saved
The Franchise Bill, and eke the Government,
A truly Christian scapegoat.

ALL.―― Gordon’s health.

[_Ghost appears again._

MAC GLAD.――Avaunt, and quit my sight! the desert hide thee!
I hoped the vultures would have ta’en thy bones;
Thou hast appeals unanswered in thy hands,
A dreadful diary.

MRS. MAC GLAD.――Think of this, good friends,
As but a thing of custom, though ’tis hard
To hear a nation’s curses on his head.

MAC GLAD.――What man dare, I dare;
Approach thou like the hated Beaconsfield,
The Salisbury, or trenchant Randolph Churchill,
Take any shape than that, and my glib tongue
Can argue thee away! Alive again,
Thou pointest to the desert with thy sword,
And trembling I behold thee! Hark, they call
The Grand Old Murderer! Hence, deathless shadow
Accusing victim hence!

(_Ghost disappears, and MAC GLADSTONE goes off to read the
Lessons in Hawarden Church._)
H. SAVILE CLARKE, 1885.

_Shakespeare’s Recipe for Cooking a Beefsteak._

If when ’twere done ’twere well done, then ’twere well
It were done quickly.

OTHELLO.

――――:o:――――

_Othello._――Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved good masters,
That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field,
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration and what mighty magic,
For such proceeding I am charged withal,
I won his daughter.
OTHELLO., Act I. Scene III.

――――:o:――――

THE STROLLING PLAYER’S APOLOGY.

Most potent, gay, irreverend signiors,
My very noble and approv’d good fellows;
That I have been a vagrant strolling player,
It is most true; true, I have been a mummer;
The very head and front of my profession,
Hath this extent; no more. Loud am I in speech,
And little bless’d with the smooth phrase of towns;
For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,
’Till now some nine months wasted, they have us’d
Their dearest action in the rafted barn;
And little of the theatre can I speak,
More than pertains to claps, and groans, and hisses;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience
I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver,
Of my whole course of life; what cork, what brick dust,
What poverty, and what mighty shifts,
(For such calamities I’ve met withal)
Rank me with your honours.
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

KENEALY’S SPEECH TO THE SENATE.

Most potent, grave, and reverent seigniors,
My very noble and approved good masters,
That I have pleaded long Sir Roger’s cause
It is most true. True, I have muddled it;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little blessed with the set Commons’ phrase;
For since these hands of mine held Roger’s brief
Till now by Stoke elected, they have used
Their dearest action in that troubled field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to bearding judge and jury,
And therefore shall I little grace my cause
In speaking of myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will the round unvarnished tale deliver
Of my whole course of pleading――“proofs of hair,”
Of “love maternal”――“manners most refined”
(With such were the proceedings charged withal),
I told as records of the Claimant’s life;
From year to year, with wrecks and butchering,
Passed “under the broad canopy of heaven.”
I ran it through even from his boyish days
To the very moment that he bade me tell it;
Therein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of Wagga-Wagga wandering to and fro,
And his returning as the Rightful Heir.
These things to hear
The British public seriously inclined;
And many a day did they with greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found the means
To start a newspaper――_The Englishman_――
Where all this pilgrimage I could dilate,
Whereof by parcels they had something heard;
And oft did I beguile them of their pence,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
Which his youth suffered. My story being done,
The judge and jury heeded not my sighs;
They said in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange,
’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful;
They wished they had not said it; yea they wished
That they had never heard the Claimant’s name,
And bade me, if I had a foe I hated,
Go tell him the everlasting story,
And then my client doomed to durance vile.
Then rose the readers of _The Englishman_,
And cried throughout the land with one accord,
“Appeal to Parliament!”
On that hint I spake――
They loved me for my notoriety,
And I loved them since it did profit me――
Therefore unto this Senate I appeal,
That my lost client should at once be free!

_Funny Folks_, May 8, 1875.

――――:o:――――

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

“Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls;
Who steals my purse steals trash――’tis something, nothing,
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands:
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed!”

were once quoted (so Tom Ingoldsby tells us) by a country baronet at a general election. Perhaps his memory failed him, or perhaps he thought to “gild refined gold!” His version was:――

“Who steals my purse steals stuff!
’Twas mine――’tisn’t his――nor nobody else’s!
But he who runs away with my GOOD NAME,
Robs me of what does not do him any good,
And makes me deuced poor!”

――――:o:――――

_Othello._―― O, now, for ever
Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!
Farewell, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And, O you mortal engines,, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!
_Act III. Scene III._

This favorite passage is cleverly imitated in George Colman’s Epilogue to Sheridan’s “School for Scandal.” Lady Teazle, who has decided to renounce Scandal, to live in peace with her husband, delivers the epilogue from which the following is an extract:――

“Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content!
Farewell, the plumed head, the cushioned tête,
That takes the cushion from its proper seat!
That spirit-stirring drum[37]――card drums I mean,
Spadille, odd trick, pam, basto, king and queen;
And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat,
The welcome visitor’s approach denote!
Farewell, all quality of high renown,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!
Farewell, your revels I partake no more,
And Lady Teazle’s occupation’s o’er!”

――――――――

THE UNDERTAKER’S FAREWELL.

O, now, for ever,
Farewell the mourning coach! Farewell the scarf!
Farewell the plumed hearse and the bad gloves,
That make a funeral’s profit! O farewell!
Farewell the sable steeds, and the black crape,
The spirit-swilling mutes, the expensive pall,
Pride, pomp, and vanity of gainful death:
And you, ye undertakers, whose long bills
The beak of snipe or woodcock counterfeit,
Farewell! your knavish occupation’s gone.

_Punch_, December, 1849.

――――――――

O EVANS!

_Middle-aged Man about Town loq._:――

Farewell the quiet chop! the kidneys poached!
Farewell the grizzled bones and the mixed drinks,
That made abstention virtue――O, farewell!
Farewell the ready waiter, the vague bill,
The nose-enlivening pinch, eye-winking smoke,
The kindly hand-shake, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of PADDY GREEN!
And O you ancient Basses, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove’s dread clamour counterfeit,
Farewell!――A fellow’s occupation’s gone!

_Punch_, November 1, 1879. _Othello improved._

――――――――

SHAKESPEARE PACKING UP HIS GOODS.

“I had been happy, if the General Thumb,
Barnum and all, had bought up the old house
In which I ne’er was born. But now for ever
Farewell the pencil’d wall! farewell the prints,
Farewell the well-thumb’d book, and all the names
That made its pages precious! Oh, farewell!
And oh you silver shillings, whose bright face
Our blessed Queen’s fair portrait counterfeits,
Farewell! Poor Shakespeare’s sole support is gone!”

From _The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 2.

――――――――

SOLILOQUY OF THE MOOR OF COVENT GARDEN.

An address supposed to be delivered by Mr. John Philip Kemble, in the character of _Othello_, during the famous O. P. (old price) riots in Covent Garden Theatre, which commenced on September 18th, 1809. The public objected to the increased prices charged in the new theatre, and also to the additional number of small private boxes, which were intended to be let for the year. The riots continued until December 16th, when the old prices were restored.

I had been _happy_ if th’ united House,
Pit, galleries, and boxes,――all had paid
Their money _cheerily_, and riot we had none.
Oh! now for ever farewell ambition’s hope!
Farewell applause! and side-long glances
From the boxes, thro’ the sticks of fan,
Or from behind the kerchief-veiled face.
Farewell our golden hopes of swelling bags,
And long account at banker’s.
Farewell ye wanton toys of feather’d cupid
In th’ anti-chambers of the private annuals!
Hark! the loud twanging of the bugle-horn,
Th’ ear-piercing whistle, and terrific bell,
The plaguy placard, drum, and deafening rattle;
The voice Stentorian, and the serpent’s hiss!
Sibilant,――all, all awake me
From dreams delusive of eternal triumph!
And ye, ye catcalls, of infernal sound,
Whose barbarous sounds might even split the ears
Of Belzebub himself,――cease your horrific din,
No more the valiant _Dan_, with _host of Israel_,
Flank’d and supported by the Bow-street tribe
Of myrmidons, and bruisers _squaring_ in the pit;――
No more the phalanx dares to face the town.
O’erwhelm’d by numbers and determin’d hate,
No more the _orders_ in the boxes now
Support the managers,――but placards wave,
And O. P.’s shine from every box! _initials hateful_;
All, all, our efforts are in vain, and fate decides
By the loud voice of the people,――_irresistible_,
That prices be reduced, and privacies
Thrown open.――
Farewell,――OTHELLO’S occupation’s gone!

_The Covent Garden Journal_, 1810.

――――:o:――――

_The Royal Dramatic College Annual_, for July, 1868, contains an imaginary dialogue between Othello (Lord Dundreary) and Iago (Mr. Buckstone), written by Mr. T. F. Dillon-Croker. It is very amusing, but it is not strictly a parody.

WILLIAM IV. AND REFORM.

When the great Reform Bill was thrown out by the Lords on May 7, 1832, the Ministry resigned, and the country was on the verge of Revolution. King William IV. who had hitherto been bitterly opposed to any Reforms, now induced the Ministers to resume office by reluctantly granting to Earl Grey full power to secure majorities, by the creation of new Peers. Henry, Lord Brougham, was then Lord Chancellor. The following parody appeared in _Figaro in London_, illustrated with portraits of the Puppet King (“Silly-Billy” he was styled), Earl Grey, and Lord Brougham.

THE ROYAL PUPPET.

“Here is a representation of a puppet, the movements of
which are occasioned by certain strings, which are held in
the hands of persons who amuse themselves by pulling first
one and then the other according as it may serve their
temporary purposes. The funny little figure wriggles about
first to one side and then the other just as it strikes the
whim of those in whose hands he happens to be, and he is
forced when acted on by them to play whatever antics they
may deem desirable. One jerk may make the little fellow
extend his hand in an attitude of friendship, while the next
moment he may be made grotesquely to throw up his foot, as
if he would kick down the very thing to which he had the
moment before offered his hand, and thus he wriggles about
in every sense of the word, the mere _puppet_ of those who
possess the power to play upon him. Occasionally the funny
little figure is made to take part in a scenic
representation, and here we give to our readers a specimen
of certain interesting

STATE THEATRICALS.

The subject is chosen from Shakespeare’s Othello, and the
following is the cast of the principal characters.”

OTHELLO, by _The Puppet_.

IAGO, by _Lord Brougham_.

DESDEMONA, by _Hibernia, the Sister Country_.

It would be needless and somewhat tedious to print the whole
of the well-known tragedy,――showing how Desdemona was
wronged, and Othello degraded, by the cunning of Iago.

For _Iago_ and _Othello_ we shall for the sake of
verisimilitude insert the names of their representatives,
Brougham and the Puppet.

_Brougham._――Look where he comes, not Ballot nor Church Reform,
Nor e’en a Grant of Universal Suffrage,
Shall ever give to thee that high respect
Thou hadst but yesterday.

ENTER THE PUPPET.

_Puppet._――Ha! ha! pelt at me? at me?

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

_Puppet._――Avaunt! begone! thou’st set me on the rack,
I swear, ’tis better to be much abused
Than but to know’t a little.

_Brougham._――How now, my lord.

_Puppet._――What sense had I, the Bill[38] would raise such a dust,
I saw it not――thought it not――it harm’d not me,
I slept the next night well――was gay and merry,
I heard no curses on the peoples’ lips:
He that is damned, not hearing of the damning,
Let him not know’t and he’s not damned at all.

_Brougham._――I am sorry to hear this.

_Puppet._――I had been happy, if the general camp
Volunteers and all had slaughtered every body,
So I had nothing known! O now for ever
Farewell the people’s love――farewell applause,
Farewell the loud “hurrah” and big “huzzas”
That made my rides so pleasant, O farewell!
Farewell the wave of hats, and the shrill “_bravo_,”
The kerchief-shaking, and all quality
Bows, shouts――the glorious products of Reform.
And O! ye papers! engines, whose anathemas
Th’ immortal Figaro’s dread cuts counterfeit,
Farewell! poor Billy’s occupation’s gone.

_Brougham._――Is it possible, my lord?

_Puppet._――(_Going fiercely to him_)――Villain! be sure you
Prove the Bill was wanted,
Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof,
(_Seizing him by the throat._)
Or by the worth of mine illustrious crown,
Thou had’st better have been born a dog――a dog, Brougham,
Than answer my waked wrath.

_Brougham._――Is it come to this?

_Puppet._――If thou dost wrong poor Erin and humbug me,
Never speak more――abandon all debate――
On taxes, head taxes accumulate,
Pass Bills to make Whigs weep, Tories amazed,
For nothing can’st thou to damnation add
Greater than that.

_Brougham._――O Place! O heaven defend me,
Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense?
Eldon be with you; take mine office――O wretched fool
That liv’st to make thy Whiggery a vice;
To be directly Whiggish is not safe.
I thank you for this profit――and from hence
I’ll be no Whig――since Whigs give such offence.
(_Going._)

_Puppet._――Nay, stay,
I think the Bill is needed and think it’s not,
I think the Whigs are right, yet think they’re not.
Would I were satisfied.

_Brougham._――How satisfied, my lord,
Would you the supervisor, go yourself to Erin,
And see her people.

_Puppet._――Death and damnation! no!

_Brougham._――It were a tedious bore, I think
To take an actual prospect: damn them, then.

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

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

_Puppet._――Oh, that the slaves had forty-thousand lives,
One each is far too poor for my revenge.
Now do I see ’tis time, look here, Brougham,
All my reforming thus I blow to heaven,
’Tis gone――
Assist, black Tories, the blood-thirsty bill,
Yield up, O Whigs, thy former popularity
To hateful tyranny.

_Brougham._――Pray be content.

_Puppet._――Blood, Brougham, blood.

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

_Puppet._――Never. Brougham,
By yonder civil list
I here engage my words. (_Kneels._)

_Brougham_.――Do not rise yet:
Witness you ever-turning Whigs above,
You Tories too, still rolling round about,
Witness, that here, Brougham doth give up
The execution of his wit, hand, heart,
To worthy William’s service! let him command,
And to obey shall be in me remorse,
What bloody work soe’er.

_Puppet._――I greet thy love, not with vain thanks,
But with acceptance bounteous,
Within these three months let me hear thee say
O’Connell’s not at large.

_Brougham._――Daniel’s _in quod_,
’Tis done at your desire.

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

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

――――:o:――――

A SCENE FROM OTHELLO.

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS.

_Othello_ (on this occasion) by Mr. Punch.

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

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

It is the cause, by JOVE, it is the cause;
Let me not name it to you, ye wild Rads.
It is the cause.
Put out LORD JOHN and then put in BOB PEEL.
Yet I’ll not oust the Whigs,
Nor force the really able ones to go:
I’d rather aid them with some sticking plaster.
Yet he must out――or he’ll betray more men.
Put out LORD JOHN and then――put out the Whigs!
If I extinguish thee, thou flaming minister,
I can thy former place restore, should it repent me;
But once put out the Whigs, I know not where
That party is their places can supply.

Othello (PUNCH) sits down in a desponding attitude, and looking at
the Lamp (LORD JOHN RUSSELL) he naturally falls asleep.

_Punch_, July 22, 1848.

――――:o:――――

A SCENE FROM “OTHELLO.”
(_Adapted to Recent Events_).

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

[39]_Othello_ (_musing_). What sense had I to be thus madly thrust
Forth as Salvini’s rival? Though his Moor
Was grand and passionate, it harmed not me.
I slept the next night well, was free and merry;
The public hailed me still the coming man.
He that is robbed, not wanting what is stol’n,
Let him not know’t and he’s not robbed at all.

_Iago._ I am sorry to hear this.

_Othello._ I had been happy if a crowded house,
Critics and all, had seen me in the _Bells_,
Or _Hamlet_――but the Moor! O, now for ever
Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!
Farewell the ringing cheer, the loud “brayvo”
That echoed from Olympus! O, farewell
To the young “gusher” of the _Semaphore_,
Who oft such “civil service” did to me;
To the loud _Thunderer_――to the shrilly trump
Of the stern _Tiser_, and the _Echo’s_ fife,
The Royal _Standard_, and all quality.
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious Puff!
And O, you mortal scribblers, whose swift pens
The drama’s “palmy days” did counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!

_Iago._ Is it possible? But, sir――――

_Othello._ Villain, be sure you prove me not the Moor.
Or, by the worth of my Shakespearian fame,
Thou hadst been better――better born a dog
Than answer my waked wrath.

_Iago._ Is it come to this?

_Othello._ Make me to see ’t, or at the least so prove it
That the probation bear no hinge nor loop
To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!

_Iago._ My dear, good sir――――

_Othello._ If thou dost quiz my Moor and mimic me,
Never write more; abandon all remorse,
On horror’s head horrors accumulate,
Do deeds to make your editor amazed,
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
Greater than this.

_Iago._ O grace! O heaven defend me!

_Othello._ I think that thou are just and think thou art not
I’ll have some proof. My fame, that was as fresh
As Dian’s visage, cannot be grimed and black
As mine own face!
I’ll not believe it. Would I were satisfied!

_Funny Folks._

――――:o:――――

“Othello Travestie, an operatic Burlesque Burletta,” by Maurice G. Dowling, Esq., was first produced at the Liver Theatre, Liverpool, March, 1834, and was afterwards performed at the Strand Theatre, London.

This now reads as a very dull and stupid burlesque, in which the only approach at fun is obtained from causing Othello to speak, and act, like a negro melodist. The songs introduced are mostly founded on the Ethiopian melodies then popular, and there are no passages, of any merit, parodying the original tragedy.

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

There was a much earlier “Othello Travestie,” published in 1813, of which details are wanting.

――――:o:――――

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

Take, O, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn;
But my kisses bring again, bring again;
Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE, _Act IV. Scene 1._

This song also occurs in Act V. Scene 2, of Beaumont and Fletcher’s _Bloody Brother_, with the following additional stanza:――

Hide, O, hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears!
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

――――:o:――――

Take, O, take that bill away,
That, alas! long since was due!
Call again some other day,
When the trees do bud anew――
Maybe, dimly distant spring
Some financial change will bring.

――――:o:――――

HIGH GAME.

Take, oh! take the haunch away
Which all sweetness hath forsworn;
Never was more cruel day,
Close and muggy was the morn.
To stop my nose, alas! is vain;
John, bring the salmon up again.

Hide that fat, more white than snow,
Which the ven’son’s bosom bears;
To the haunch mine eyes will grow,
Such a tempting form it wears;
If my tongue from taste were free,
Many a slice I’d eat of thee.

_Rhapsodies_, by W. H. Ireland, 1803.

――――:o:――――

In 1879 a Mr. Tracy Turnerelli acquired a certain notoriety in consequence of having organized a subscription to purchase a golden laurel wreath to be presented to Lord Beaconsfield. The subscription was entitled “The People’s Tribute,” and 52800 pennies were collected, the wreath was made and publicly exhibited, when, to the great disgust of Mr. Tracy Turnerelli, the Prime Minister declined the gift. Lord Beaconsfield’s reasons were given in the following letter, which cleverly exposes the self-seeking motives of the organiser of this “Tribute”:――

“10, Downing-street, Whitehall, June 16, 1879.――Sir,――Lord
Beaconsfield desires me to inform you that he has received
and carefully considered your letter of the 8th inst., in
which you ask him to name a day for the presentation of a
laurel wreath procured by the contributions of upwards of
50,000 of the people, which have been collected, according
to your statement, with ‘immense labour and
never-yet-exampled efforts.’ His lordship has, moreover, had
before him the correspondence which during the last five
years you have addressed to him, and he notices especially
your complaints that your services have received no
recognition at the hands of the leaders of the Conservative
party, and the expression of your hope that ‘sooner or later
they will meet with reward.’ Although Lord Beaconsfield
would fully appreciate and value a spontaneous gift from his
fellow-subjects belonging to a class in which he has ever
taken the warmest interest, he cannot but feel that, being
himself intimately connected with honours and rewards, he is
precluded by the spirit in which you have previously
addressed him from accepting a gift thus originated, and
proffered in a manner which he cannot deem satisfactory.――I
have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, ALGERNON
TURNOR.

Tracy Turnerelli, Esq.”

The golden wreath was publicly exhibited at the Crystal Palace, and afterwards at Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition.

――――:o:――――

“THE WREATH.”

Take, oh take that wreath away,
Which so many pennies cost,
On which labour “ne’er-to-be――
Calculated” has been lost:
But true honour bring again;――
“Peace with honour” is in vain.

Send, oh send those pennies back
To the fools who sent them you:
They will all their pennies lack
When their income tax is due.
Though you’ve cozened such a mass,
Turnerelli, you’re an ass.

_Bits of Beaconsfield, a New Series of Disraeli’s Curiosities of Literature_, (Abel Heywood & Son, Manchester.)

――――――――

To which Turnerelli is supposed to have replied in the following parody of Ben Jonson:

THE WREATH.
(After an old model).

I bought thee late a golden wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving me a hope that I
Thy pensioner might be.
But thou thereat didst only sneer,
And wouldst have none of me;
Since when I hate the thing, I swear,
Not for itself, but thee.

_Funny Folks_, July, 1879.

――――――――

THE WREATH REFUSED.

Take, oh take that wreath away,
Though it shine as bright as morn,
Never shall the Lib’rals say,
I am open to their scorn;
And though you may come again,
You will always come in vain.

Hide, oh hide that saucy head,
Which your portly body bears;
Had you only brought instead
Something which a noble wears,
As they give to Gladstone now,
You would then have saved this row.

True, oh true I should have nipped
This mad scheme when it began;
But I did not think your gift
Would be chaffed by every man.
And, alas, my Honoured Peace,
Does no longer gull the geese!

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

――――:o:――――

ERIN’S APPEAL TO BRITANNIA.

Take, O, take Parnell away,
Though so loudly he hath sworn;
God forgive me if I say,
Would he never had been born;
And if thou canst take another,
Take his sister;――take his mother!

Take from poor unhappy maid
All the “friends” that prey upon her;
Keep the lot that _hasn’t stayed_――
Prudent Egan and O’Connor;
And if short of patriot vigour,
Try O’Sullivan;――try Biggar!
ANONYMOUS.
_Grins and Groans_, 1882.

RICHARD THE THIRD.