Chapter XXIII: Act I: SCENE I. London. A street

_Enter RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, solus._

_Glou._ Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks;
Nor made to court an amorous looking glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant upon mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,
About a prophecy, which says that G
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.

This speech was chosen as the original for a parody competition in _The World_, in September, 1879, the subject to be treated being “The Return of Lord Chelmsford and other officers from Zululand.”

FIRST PRIZE.

LORD C. _loq._ Now is the night of our despondency
Illumined with the star of victory;
And all the gloom that hung on Afric’s coast
Lost in the glory of Ulundi’s fame.
Now are our battered arms with laurels crowned;
Our stern defences turned to swift pursuit;
Our laagered outposts into merry camps.
Now may the mounted staff in bright array――
Where lurks no more the dangerous ambuscade――
Pursue the track of frightened fugitives,
Cantering as gaily, as on Rotten Row
With amorous glance when Phryne tempts pursuit.
But I, that care not for these showy tricks,
To make sensation pictures for the press;
I, that am plain of speech, and lack the grace
Of smooth reporters to exaggerate
The lame conclusion and unfinished aim
Of a safe skirmish with some half-armed tribes
Into the conduct of a mighty war,
So that the farce makes laughter for the clubs,――
Why I, who bore the burden of the fight,
Can smile to see _his_ swaggering airs,
Who would make me the shadow to his sun,
And boast his strength in my infirmity.
Since, then, I cannot turn a sycophant
To woo the loud-mouthed plaudits of the mob,
I scorn the changing fancies of these days,
And wait the verdict of impartial fame.
Plain can I see the drift of Wolseley’s plots:
By false deductions and imputed blame
To make our victories all imperfect seem,
Our troops superfluous, and his skill supreme.
No matter! For our Queen, as true and just
As meaner minds are vain and envious,
This day hath bid me to her gracious court;
And our Queen’s smile――no prophet needs to say――
Is the sure prelude of a nations praise.

OLD LOG.

――――――――

SECOND PRIZE.

SCENE: _Zululand, the Bush. Enter CETEWAYO, with
an English newspaper._

CET. Now are the grumblings of their discontent
Turned all too strangely into blatant talk;
And all the angry questionings in their House
In the deep mockery of sham welcomes buried.
Now are some brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Their late misdeeds held up for monuments,
Their vacillations changed to themes for greetings,
Their rearward marches to prudential measures.
Grim-visaged warriors seam their laughing fronts
To see how he who breathless urged his steed,
Frightened to death of Zulu adversaries,
Now poses blandly in the festive chamber,
And speaks, when better taste should make him mute.
But I, that know not much of party tricks,
Nor how defeats seem through their looking-glass;
I, that have rudely stamped upon their majesty,
Nor failed to chase them oft from veld and drift;
I, though curtailed of all my realm’s proportions,
Cheated of fealty by their politic measures,
Dethroned, diminished, sent in double time
Into this uttermost bush, with peace made up
So lamely and of such apparent patchwork
That men laugh at it as I talk to them,――
Why I, in this weak parody on peace,
Should scorn like these to pass away the time,
Mistaking much the shadow for the sun,
And braying forth their own deformity;
And therefore――though I cannot fall much lower
In all things needful in these latter days――
I envy not the braggartdom of Britain,
And hate the rampant rubbish of her ways,
As shown me in this paper――dangerous
And morbid prophecies, libels, and schemes
To set my brother chiefs against their king,
In deadly hate the one against the other.
And if Cetewayo views the future just
Of these same English, false and treacherous――
If ‘penny dreadfuls’ be not close mew’d up――
This is his prophecy: _That they and G.
Of England’s fame the murderers shall be_.
Brim up, thoughts o’er my soul! my time yet comes.
LINDENFELD.
_The World_, September 10, 1879.

――――:o:――――

“Kinge Richard ye Third, or ye Battel of Bosworth Field; a merry mysterie,” in one act, by Charles Selby, was produced at the Strand Theatre, on February 26, 1844. This burlesque can be obtained from Mr. Samuel French, 89, Strand, London.

A much more ambitious burlesque of the same tragedy was produced at the New Royalty Theatre, Soho, during the management of Miss Oliver, on September 24, 1868. This was written by F. C. Burnand, and was entitled “The Rise and Fall of Richard III; or a new Front to an old Dicky.”

The cast was as follows:――

_Duke of Gloster_, afterwards, in Scene 2, Richard the Third
(a character drawn, from the ideal of a Richardsonian
playwright and a Colley-_Cibber-wright_). He is a
humpbacked, knocknee’d, generally hideous; altogether a
‘_beautiful part_’ played by Mr. DEWAR.

_Henry_, _Earl of Richmond_ (original Proprietor of the Star
and Garter). Henry Richmond “passed the best years of his
life in Brittany, and was more of a Frenchman than an
Englishman” Miss CHARLOTTE SAUNDERS.

_Lord Stanley_ (Richmond’s stepfather devoted to his cause
unless Richard wins the day) Mr. RUSSELL.

_The Duke of Buckingham_ (Richard’s friend and then his
enemy) Miss ANNIE COLLINSON.

_Sir John Catesby_, or _Cats-by_
(Richard’s ally) Miss NELLIE BROMLEY.

_Tyrrel_ (a descendant of the gentleman who killed William
Rufus). An hereditary villain. Richard’s “creature” Mr. DAY.

_The Lord Mayor of London_ Mr. KENWARD.

_The Recorder_, by the gentleman who wrote the celebrated
history, _i.e._ Mr. COBBETT.

_The Mace_ Mr. CHARLES.

_Pages of History_ By LADIES of the BALLET.

_Duchess of York_ (mother of Richard the Third) Mr. DANVERS.

_Lady Anne_ Miss THOMPSON.
and
_Princess Elizabeth_ (betrothed to Richmond) Miss M. OLIVER.

There have been several other burlesques of this tragedy; Richard III. Travestie, with annotations, by William By, 1816; Richard III. Travestie, 1823; and Richard III. burlesqued, by J. Sterling Coyne, 1844.

KING HENRY VIII.

_Cardinal Wolsey_
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new open’d. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
_Act III., Sc. II._

――――――――

LAMENT OF THE EMINENT ONE.

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

_The Figaro_, October 2, 1875.

――――――――

MR. GLADSTONE AND HIS OLD CHINA.

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

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

――――――――

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

JULIUS CÆSAR.

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

A POACHING ACTOR.

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

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

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

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

――――:o:――――

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

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

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

SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT (LOQ.);

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

――――――――

The following were highly commended:――

JOHN BRIGHT (LOQ.):

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

――――――――

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

CYMBELINE.

SONG.

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

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

_Guiderius._ Fear no more the lightning flash.

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

_Guiderius._ Fear not slander, censure rash;

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

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

_Guiderius._ No exorciser harm thee!

_Arviragus._ Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

_Guiderius._ Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

_Arviragus._ Nothing ill come near thee!

_Both._ Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!