Chapter XVIII: Drum Ist’s So Wohl Mir in Der Welt (3)

Having hopped from Aristophanes to Gay, we may now skip from Gay to Sheridan without overleaping any remarkable example of the burlesque drama. The _Critic_ is possibly the smartest burlesque ever written; and yet its purpose is a shallow pretence. Like the _Beggar’s Opera_, the _Critic_ was written to amuse, and it fulfils no other object. It cannot be said to be a satire upon the critics of the period, since the remarks of Dangle and Sneer, during the rehearsal of the tragedy, are pointedly framed with the view of calling forth a smart response from Puff, and are not in any way examples of the theatrical criticism of the time. Sheridan arranges everything to give occasion for an exhibition of his own smartness. He spreads the stage with crackers, as it were, and cares not who steps upon them and sets them banging for the amusement of the audience. Thus the tragedy opens with two sentinels asleep, to give occasion for a joke when they awake:—

_Dang._ Hey! why, I thought these fellows had been asleep?

_Puff._ Only a pretence; there’s the art of it: they were spies
of Lord Burleigh’s.

_Sneer._ But isn’t it odd they were never taken notice of, not
even by the commander-in-chief?

_Puff._ O Lud, sir! if people who want to listen, or overhear,
were not always connived at in a tragedy, there would be no
carrying on any plot in the world.

_Dang._ That’s certain.

Here a laugh is raised at the artificiality of the stage; but the satire suggests no remedy. Both speakers are satisfied that these things must be so in a tragedy. In every instance where the satire is directed against the practices of the stage, the remarks, though highly diverting, are simply truisms. Thus, when Leicester asks the knights if they are all resolved to conquer or be free, and they answer, “All,” Dangle chimes in, “_Nem. con._ egad.” To which Puff replies, “Oh, yes! where they do agree on the stage, their unanimity is wonderful.” This remark never fails to produce a hearty laugh; and yet it would be difficult to say what we laugh at. The dramatic art inexorably demands that where unanimity is to be expressed it should be expressed as briefly and _unanimously_ as possible. If we laugh at anything here, it is at the fixed and unalterable canons of the dramatic art, which the peculiar turn of Sneer’s remark places in a ridiculous light. It is hard to discover at what particular folly or vice the _Critic_ is aimed. All the characters are satirists by turns; Puff pokes his fun at the drama; and Sneer and Dangle poke their fun at Puff, only to encounter a sharper retort. All are so confoundedly witty, that you cannot tell which are the butts and which the sharp-shooters. Nothing is more apparent in the dialogue of the tragedy than the desire of the author to show off his own cleverness. Some passages which are intended as burlesques of fine writing are as near as possible the real thing. Thus, England’s fate at the approach of the Armada—

“Like a clipp’d guinea, trembles in the scale.”

The guinea is certainly a vulgar image, but the thought is a happy one. The whole of the passage in which this occurs contains no hint of the ridiculous until we come to the “trembling guinea,” and that but very slightly turns the scale to the side of absurdity. When Sheridan tried fine writing in earnest he was not so successful. His own _Pizarro_ was a greater burlesque than Mr. Puff’s _Spanish Armada_. _Pizarro_, in its highest flights, is “downright booth at a fair.”

Travelling downwards from Sheridan’s time, we meet with no notable example of a burlesque in dramatic form until we come to _Bombastes Furioso_, first produced about the year 1809. We have never been able to discover that the author of this production had any special moral, political, literary, or other “purpose” whatever. At any rate, he claims none for himself; and we do not know that any one has made the claim for him. Bombast in general would seem to be the mark at which the arrows are let fly; but the incidents of the piece are so extravagant and capricious, that we are tempted to believe the author sat down to write without having any fixed idea what he was going to make it. A king and a general making love to a cook-maid in a kitchen presents but a very vulgar and commonplace antithesis, and would be altogether offensive, but for the mock chivalry which is sustained in the demeanour and language of the king and the general. The conduct of these two characters accords with a kind of harmless lunacy which is natural in so far as it exists in nature. Two lunatics of this class might extemporize the challenge and duel scene in their ward at Bedlam, and the random performance would be very funny. We are, therefore, inclined to regard _Bombastes Furioso_ as a “lune.” Still, the piece is characterized by many merits. Its thorough-paced extravagance is not the least of them. The peculiar diction, too, is singularly well suited to burlesque. Wit, there is little or none; but its place is more than supplied by humorous expression and absurd similitudes.

The entrance of Bombastes, followed by his army, consisting of one drummer, one fifer, and two soldiers of unequal stature, is in the true spirit of burlesque. In the whole range of burlesque-dramatic literature, there is, perhaps, no single passage which produces so much effect as Bombastes’ address to his army. Yet it consists of only three lines—

_Bombas._ (_confidentially_).

Meet me this ev’ning at the Barley-Mow;
I’ll bring your pay—you see I’m busy now.
(_In a loud, commanding tone_)
Begone, brave army, and don’t kick up a row!

Nor could anything be more ludicrous than the entrance of Bombastes in the wood, intent on suicide, preceded by a fifer playing “Michael Wiggins:”

_Bombas._

Gentle musician, let thy dulcet strain
Proceed—play “Michael Wiggins” o’er again.
Music’s the food of love—give o’er, give o’er,
For I must batten on that food no more.

Who has not enjoyed the whimsical idea of challenging the whole human race by hanging a pair of jack boots on a tree, and writing on them—

Who dares this pair of boots displace,
Must meet Bombastes face to face.

In _Bombastes Furioso_, we have burlesque clothed in its proper dress, not in the toga of a didactic philosopher, but in the spangled frippery of a mummer. For the first time it discards “purpose,” and speaks in its own proper language—doggrel rhyme.

Mr. Planché was the pioneer of the new school, and his sole purpose was to divert holiday audiences (chiefly composed of boys and girls home for the Christmas and Easter vacations) with appropriate dramatic versions of pretty fairy tales. His compositions were rather extravaganzas than burlesques, and depended for their success more upon the romantic interest of the story and the wit of the dialogue than upon their satire. Mr. Planché may claim the merit—if merit it be—of having first introduced the pun into these compositions: and it must be allowed that he punned with discretion; which is certainly more than we can say of his younger successors in the craft of joke-making. When Mr. Planché was at the height of his fame as a burlesque writer, these pieces were brought out only at holiday time; in some cases as a substitute for the pantomime, which, in certain quarters, was beginning to be voted low and vulgar. It sufficed then to tell the dramatic story in sprightly rhymes, slightly sprinkled with puns and allusions to the events of the day. Ballet, glittering fairy scenery, parodies set to popular airs and red and blue fire, did the rest. The satire contained in these pieces was of a very harmless kind, and rarely aimed at any game higher than the Thames Tunnel or the Lord Mayor’s show. Of late years, however, pieces of this class have asserted a much more extended sway. They are now played in season and out of season, and at one, if not two theatres they hold the stage all the year round, and constitute the chief attraction. The young school of burlesque writers follow a method peculiarly their own, though, of course, they are largely indebted to the traditions of their immediate predecessors. The chief elements which enter into the composition of these pieces are, pretty scenery, negro melodies, “break-down” dances, and outrageous puns. It is also a necessary condition to their success, that one or more saucy actresses with good legs should be employed in their performance. The music and the scenery go for much, the puns go for more, but the comic dance goes for most of all. The literature which enters into the composition of the more successful pieces of this description is not by any means to be despised as an intellectual effort. The young men who can so industriously torture the English language into such strange and startling meanings, through a thousand lines of rhyme, evidently possess an amount of talent and application which, if properly directed, might be of real service to letters; or, if not to letters, to some industrial pursuit. Tom Hood, who was considered the prince of punsters, in his day, could have had no conception of the height to which punning has attained (or, perhaps, we ought to say the depth to which it has fallen) in our time. A pun a day would, perhaps, have been the extent of the indulgence which Hood would have allowed himself; but these burlesque writers fire them off in volleys, and glory in startling the English language from its propriety. As regards punning, the whole tribe of jokers follow exactly the same method, as may be seen by reference to the burlesques of the present season. Hear how Mr. William Brough, in his burlesque of _Endymion_, clatters his _pans_:—

_Pan._

Oh! long-ear’d but short-sighted fauns, desist;
To the great Pan, ye little pitchers, list;
Pan knows a thing or two. In point of fact,
He’s a deep Pan, and anything but cracked;
A perfect _oracle_ Pan deems himself; he
Is earthenwarish; so, of course, is delfy (Delphi).
Trust then to Pan your troubles to remove—
A warming-Pan he’ll to your courage prove;
A prophet, he foresees the ills you fear;
So for them all you have your Pan a seer (panacea).

Here every thought is designed as a peg whereon to hang a pun. The author would seem to have been fearful of having nothing but his punning for his pains in two instances, where he finds it necessary to add explanatory notes. Now see with what labour Mr. Byron, in his _Cinderella_, carries coals to the joke market:—

_Cind._

Cinders and coals I am accustomed to,
They seem to me to tinge all things I view.

_Prince._

The fact I can’t say causes me surprise,
For _Kohl_ is frequently in ladies’ eyes.

_Cind._

At morn, when reading, as the fire up burns,
The printer’s stops to semi-_coal-uns_ turns;
I might as well read _Coke_.

_Prince._

Quite right you are.
He’s very useful reading at the _bar_.
Who is your favourite poet? _Hobbs?_

_Cind._

Not quite;
No; I think _Cole_ridge is my favourite;
His melan-_coally_ suits my situation;
My dinner always is a _coald coal_-lation.
Smoke pictures all things seem, whate’er may be ’em,
A cyclorama, through the _Coal I see ’em_.

_Prince._

Is there no way from out a path so black?

_Cind._

There’s no way out; my life’s a _cul_ de sac.

Of course, authors who have so little respect for the legitimate meaning of English words cannot be expected to pay regard to the rules of English grammar; nor is it to be imagined that their course of solid reading has been such as to enable them to know that Hobbes was not particularly distinguished for his poetry. But all this is included in the broad, general licence which these poets take out. In another piece, _Bluebeard from a New Point of Hue_,—the puns you see even extend to the playbill and the title-page of the production—the same author takes occasion, on the same principle, to pun until all is _blue_. Fatima calls Abomilique a “blue bore.”

_Abom._

Everything takes that colour in my eyes;
This, ’stead of being fash’nablest of flies,
And red, when I look at it, in two twos,
Changes its form and colour—it’s a _blouse_.
’Stead of yellow covering, my foot
Seems, in my eyes, clad in a _Blu_cher boot.
Every hotel I may put up at, boasts
The selfsame sign—of course, it’s the _Blue_-Posts.
Whene’er a portrait-painter I employ,
He makes me look like Gainsborough’s Blue Boy.
My palanquin, the one I bought for you,
Becomes an omnibus, the Royal _Blue_.
Ladies seem blue-stockings and bloomers through it;
Each song I hear appears composed by _Blewitt_;
In my siesta, every afternoon,
I dream I’m in the air in a big _b’loon_.

This is simply a long punning exercise, of a sustained effort to the jingling of words of similar sound, but wholly destitute of similarity of sense. There is not that startling conjunction of similar dissimilarities which constitutes the true pun. It cannot be said that there is any wit in making Bluebeard see everything blue, because his beard is blue. If he had been remarkable for his blue eyes, there might have been some point in it.

Sydney Smith, who was as little accustomed to found his jokes upon a just estimate of things as any of the burlesque writers, once said that it required a surgical operation to get a joke into the head of a Scotchman. Yet plain James Hogg has given us a better specimen of a pun than any of these professional English wits. Some one at table mentioned that it was reported Dr. Parr had married a woman beneath him in station. “Ay, ay,” said Hogg, “she is, nae doot, below Parr.” Here is a pun perfect in all its parts, preserving at once exactness of sound and sense, and giving at the same time a humorous colouring to a commonplace fact. The above specimens, however, are the best in the pieces before us. The majority of the puns are of the most audacious kind, many of them suggestive of a joker in the last stage of drivelling senility.

This excessive and bad punning upon words merely is a poor substitute for true wit and humour. Half of the puns are lost upon the audience owing to their obscurity and the rapidity with which they follow upon each other’s heels. And even when they are “taken,” the delight they give is simply of the kind which is afforded by a Chinese puzzle: they are ingenious, and that is all. Punning upon words merely is not a difficult thing, if you could only condescend to give your mind to it. The art might be taught in six easy lessons, as Mr. Smart teaches writing, and as other professors teach crochet and Berlin-wool work. We can quite imagine how any of these burlesque writers might have improved James the First in the art. James was a great punster; but his style would be considered primitive in these days. On one occasion, his Majesty made a punning speech to the professors of the University of Edinburgh.[2] They had been engaged in a philosophical disputation, and his Majesty complimented them one after the other by name. We may give this as a specimen of his Majesty’s style before receiving lessons:—

“Methinks these gentlemen by their very names have been destined for the acts which they have had in hand to-day. Adam was the father of all, and very fitly Adamson had the first part in this act. The defender is justly called Fairly: his thesis had some fair lies, and he defended them very fairly and with many fair lies given to his oppugners. And why should not Mr. Lands be the first to enter the lands? but now I clearly see that all lands are not barren, for certainly he hath shown a fertile wit. Mr. Young is very old in Aristotle. Mr. Reed need not be red (oh!) with blushing for his actions this day. Mr. King disputed very kingly and of a kingly purpose anent the royal supremacy of reason over anger and all passions.”

After six lessons his Majesty would have come out in the following flowing style:—

“Adam having been the _fust_ man, it is only natural that Adamson should talk _fust_ian. We are in hopes, however, that _Adam_son will _Eve_ntually _Cain_ (explanatory note: _gain_) experience, and be _Abel_ to do better; for it is fit and proper that Adamson should be the first man in learning, re_garden_ him in connection with _Eden_burgh. Mr. Young is _youngry_ after knowledge, and we fear is in some danger, through studying Aristotle too much, of coming to be _’ung_ before he is much _older_. We were afraid that Mr. Reed would have been _red_uced for an argument; but we perceive he is _red_ivivus, and has _red_eemed his character from being _red_iculous. Verily, Mr. Fairly”—but enough; this would have been quite sufficient for the punning preceptor to frame and glaze and put in his window as a testimony to his skill in teaching the whole art of pun-making. It is on record, that King James prepared himself for his jokes by a course of study and stimulants, and did not venture to fire them off until after the sixth bottle. If such simple exercises required so much stimulation, what must be the process which the punsters of our day find it necessary to resort to? The Turkish bath is said to bring out a vast amount of latent and unsuspected filth from the skin. Is there any similar process for acting upon the brain?

Satire is a weapon which has been used with good effect by skilful hands in books and in speeches, both in ancient and modern times; but we cannot discover that it has done any great or signal execution when wielded by the burlesque writer on the stage. Aristophanes certainly did not revive the palmy days of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. It is true it has been asserted that he did; but will any one please to mention the successors of these three great masters who are worthy to be named in the same category? It might be easier to specify the harm than to estimate the good which flowed from the comedies of Aristophanes. Not only the Greek drama, but Greece itself, dated its decline from those days. And, besides, it is not at all certain that when Aristophanes exhibited Socrates suspended in a basket, spouting incomprehensible doctrine—incomprehensible at that time—he did not sow the seeds of the hemlock to which the greatest of all the Greeks was condemned. It is true that Socrates was not sentenced until nearly twenty years afterwards; but Aristophanes was one of the first to throw mud at him, and it was only through the persistency with which his detractors followed the dramatist’s example that some of the mud eventually stuck. The Athenians knew and felt, when it was too late, that the most virtuous man of their age had been sacrificed to an idle and reckless clamour. Here then, to begin with, is a suspicion of murder attaching to burlesque. In the present day, the only murder of which it can be found guilty is the murder of the English language.

If Dr. Johnson were alive to pronounce sentence, we know what would become of the burlesque writers: they would swing every man Jack—or shall we say Joe?—of them. It is to be laid to their charge that they have familiarized the educated public with the use of slang. Slang words and phrases are now of frequent occurrence in our literature. We meet with them not alone in a low class of publications, but in the leading articles of newspapers, in the orations of senators, and even in books of a solid and standard character. If these burlesques have done us this amount of harm, and have done us no other good than to excite the “loud laugh” indiscriminately at the expense of things worthy and unworthy, what shall we say of them? May we not sigh for those palmy days of the drama which are past and gone?

Nevertheless, we can have no sympathy with those who complain that these burlesques have elbowed the legitimate drama off the stage. The true legitimacy of the drama may well be questioned, when it cannot maintain its claims against this bastard pretender. We have seen (on rare occasions) that good sterling plays will always draw the public; and if, in default of these, the public prefer comparatively harmless puns and parodies to the pollution of translations from the French, perhaps it may be allowed that, of the two evils, they choose the least.

FOOTNOTES

[2] _History of University of Edinburgh._

When thou Sleepest.

When thou sleepest, lulled in night,
Art thou lost in vacancy?
Does no silent inward light,
Softly breaking, fall on thee?
Does no dream on quiet wing
Float a moment mid that ray,
Touch some answering mental string,
Wake a note, and pass away?

When thou watchest, as the hours
Mute and blind are speeding on,
O’er that rayless path, where lowers
Muffled midnight, black and lone;
Comes there nothing hovering near,
Thought or half reality,
Whispering marvels in thine ear,
Every word a mystery,

Chanting low an ancient lay,
Every plaintive note a spell,
Clearing memory’s clouds away,
Showing scenes thy heart loves well?
Songs forgot, in childhood sung,
Airs in youth beloved and known,
Whispered by that airy tongue,
Once again are made thine own.

Be it dream in haunted sleep,
Be it thought in vigil lone,
Drink’st thou not a rapture deep
From the feeling, ’tis thine own?
All thine own; thou need’st not tell
What bright form thy slumber blest;—
All thine own; remember well
Night and shade were round thy rest.

Nothing looked upon thy bed,
Save the lonely watch-light’s gleam;
Not a whisper, not a tread
Scared thy spirit’s glorious dream.
Sometimes, when the midnight gale
Breathed a moan and then was still,
Seemed the spell of thought to fail,
Checked by one ecstatic thrill;

Felt as all external things,
Robed in moonlight, smote thine eye;
Then thy spirit’s waiting wings
Quivered, trembled, spread to fly;
Then th’ aspirer wildly swelling
Looked, where mid transcendency
Star to star was mutely telling
Heaven’s resolve and fate’s decree.

Oh! it longed for holier fire
Than this spark in earthly shrine;
Oh! it soared, and higher, higher,
Sought to reach a home divine.
Hopeless quest! soon weak and weary
Flagged the pinion, drooped the plume,
And again in sadness dreary
Came the baffled wanderer home.

And again it turned for soothing
To th’ unfinished, broken dream;
While, the ruffled current smoothing,
Thought rolled on her startled stream.
I have felt this cherished feeling,
Sweet and known to none but me;
Still I felt it nightly healing
Each dark day’s despondency.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË.

The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson.

BY ONE OF THE FIRM.