Chapter XVII: Prologue (1)

Most potent, grave, and Reverend Signiors,
My very noble and approved good Masters
Of Arts, ye Bachelors and Commoners,
Ye Doctors, Proctors, Scholars, Dons, and Men,
And last, not least, _Subscribers_, to whose kindness
We owe our life; that we have rushed to print
It is most true, true we have headlong rushed,
The very head and front of our offending,
Hath this extent, no more: and pray you all
If any chaff be found amongst our _Parodies_,
For the wheat’s sake, oh! pardon it!

――――:o:――――

N giving the following Parodies on detached passages from the plays of Shakespeare, it must be stated, (though such a statement ought to be perfectly unnecessary,) that not the slightest disrespect is intended, either to the works themselves, or to that great author whose name, and fame, are dear to every Englishman.

Nearly every play written by Shakespeare has been burlesqued, and whenever one of the London theatrical managers produces a grand revival of a Shakespearian tragedy, a travestie of it is almost immediately produced, at one, or another, of the smaller houses, which provide fun for the laughter-loving public. There are many worthy people who take offence at this, and fail to see that such fun is of a very harmless description, and that no disrespect is intended to the immortal bard, who was not, himself, above introducing burlesques of his contemporaries, even in his most serious works.

This question was fully discussed in the London daily papers in August, 1883, _àpropos_ of burlesques of _The Tempest_, and _Hamlet_, produced by Mr. John Hollingshead, at the Gaiety Theatre. Some of the letters then published throw considerable light on what had been previously done in the way of Shakespearian burlesques, and are also of interest as summing up the arguments, for and against, Parody and Burlesque in general.

Mr. Moy Thomas, the theatrical critic of the _Daily News_, thus introduced the subject in his weekly column, entitled――

THE THEATRES.

“We have received the following letter on the subject of the
impending burlesques of ‘The Tempest,’ and ‘Hamlet,’ at the
Gaiety Theatre. We may remind our readers that we described the
project as ‘somewhat startling,’ while we called attention to the
facts that the productions in question are to be avowedly
‘elaborate parodies,’ and that there is reason to believe that
‘if this experiment should be found to be suited to the tastes of
the town Mr. Burnand’s process of adapting Shakespeare to
“nineteenth century audiences” may be expected to continue.’ More
than this, in the way of protest, it did not in the present stage
of the project seem to us necessary to say in a column which is
mainly devoted to dramatic news.”

“‘May I ask if it is possible that the dramatic critic of
the _Daily News_ means to pass over without a word of
disapprobation the proposal to burlesque “Hamlet” and “The
Tempest?” I think many people must have been as surprised as
I was to read your intimation of it in last Monday’s issue
uncoupled with any word of disapproval or disgust. Surely
the English stage may well be thought by Englishmen to have
reached its lowest point of degradation, and one strangely
in contrast with the honour we profess to pay to it, when
two of the finest plays and finest works in all literature
are to be sacrificed to the passion for burlesque. We had
better consider ourselves no longer the same nation, and
cease to pride ourselves on having produced the foremost man
in all literature when we descend to this without protest. I
do not think any language can be too strong on such a
subject from a lover of Shakespeare and of the stage, and
one who cannot but contrast the present tastes of the public
with the opinion formed of them by Milton two centuries
ago;――“What wants there to such a towardly and pregnant soil
but wise and faithful labourers to make a knowing people, a
nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies.’”――I am yours
faithfully, W. KENNEDY.――Hampstead, August 16.”

――――:o:――――

A few days later the following replies were published in _The Daily News_:――

Sir,――Your correspondent “Mr. Kennedy” speaks of a proposed
new version of _The Tempest_, of a more or less burlesque
character, as if I and Mr. Burnand had discovered a new
crime. _The World_ (in the absence of Mr. Yates) also
follows suit. Messrs. F. Talfourd, Andrew Halliday, Robert
Brough, and others were not afraid to to draw upon
Shakespeare for their burlesques, and in the so-called
“palmy days” of the drama the parodies of Shakespeare were
frequent, coarse, and brutal. The subjects of many of
Shakespeare’s plays were the common property of the
dramatist long before the advent of the master, and if he
were now alive he would probably be the last to object to
treatment such as Goethe has received in every city in
Europe.――I am, &c., JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD.――Gaiety Theatre,
Strand.”

Sir,――This stir about The _Tempest_ seems a storm in a
teacup. Both “Mr. W. Kennedy, of Hampstead,” who naturally
takes high ground, and your dramatic critic would have acted
more justly to my forthcoming piece had they waited to see
what it was before attempting to excite public prejudice
against my work. There is an important distinction between
what is commonly understood by “burlesquing Shakespeare,” by
which is meant taking his lines and sentiments and giving
them an absurd turn, and writing what is now-a-days styled a
“burlesque version” (which is really an extravaganza) of a
fairy tale which Shakespeare has immortalised, especially
when Shakespeare himself has given the keynote for the fun,
as he has done in _The Tempest_, no doubt with a full
consciousness of its humour.

As the lawyer’s wisdom is popularly supposed to reside
mainly in the wig, so the poet has made all Prospero’s magic
art lie in his book, wand, and magic robes, without which he
is powerless. When he does not wish to be professionally
engaged he puts aside his “magic properties” and says “lie
there my art.” When he is renouncing conjuring he buries his
books of legerdemain, and has done with it for ever,
retaining no sort of power independently of this magic
receipt book, or as I shall struggle not to call it, in
deference to Mr. Kennedy, of Hampstead to whom a pun on
anything Shakespearian must appear quite too-too dreadful,
his “spelling book.” Caliban is aware of this, and directs
his efforts to possessing himself of this book. This
perfectly admissible view of Prospero, together with the
notion that he himself gives as to Ariel’s true character,
has furnished me with the materials for an extravaganza at
the Gaiety, which will be entitled _Ariel, or, the King of
the Caliban Island_, of which the critics and public will
form their judgment when it appears. _En attendant_, to
raise a prejudice against my work is clearly unjust. Let me
have fairplay even for an extravaganza founded on a
Shakespearian fairy tale. “Atlas,” in the _World_, had an
unfair note on this subject. I have written to him much as I
have to you, but with a special “P.S.,” which I trust he
will have the generosity to publish, pointing out that
“Atlas” should be the last to brand as a crime burlesquing
anything Shakesperian, as in his own paper a few weeks ago
appeared the story of _Hamlet_ travestied, and adapted to
“nineteenth century” readers.――Yours faithfully,
F. C. BURNAND.

――――:o:――――

(To the Editor of the _Daily News_.)――Sir,――We are told that
a parody in three or four acts of _The Tempest_ is in
preparation, and we are asked by the author to suspend
judgment until its production. The appeal is at any rate
superficially fair. But Mr. Burnand’s letter is not very
reassuring. For instance, he calls the great play “a fairy
tale,” i.e., he seems to put it on a level with “The White
Cat” and “Puss in Boots.” But let that pass. All who
reverence the great name of Shakespeare, and who are
grateful for his noble plays (and they are numerous,
whatever Mr. Burnand and _Punch_ may think), will patiently
await _The King of the Caliban Island_ (what charming wit
and taste!) leaning upon their swords. In any case
Shakespeare’s memory cannot suffer. What is to be feared is
the degradation of the stage which he ennobled, and of the
actors and dramatic authors of whom he ought to be the
proudest and most sacred boast.――I am, Sir, yours
faithfully, AN OLD PLAYGOER.
August 20, 1883.

――――:o:――――

In the next weekly column of _The Theatres_ (August 27, 1883,) Mr. Moy Thomas inserted another long letter, which had been addressed to him by Mr. F. C. Burnand, referring to his forthcoming burlesque upon Shakespeare’s _Tempest_:――

“I know you are not friendly to burlesques――and probably not
to burlesque writers; still, as a critic, as a judge who
will have to try the case, it is hardly fair to range
yourself on the adverse side, and to make your verdict a
foregone conclusion. Patience a moment, and hear――or read.
The existence of Robson was an excuse for a burlesque on
_Shylock_, and for one on _Macbeth_; also on _Medea_. Now,
in looking about for a character, a novelty, for Miss Nelly
Farren, who _is_ a genius in _her_ way, as Robson was in
_his_――the notion of _an_ Ariel struck me, and the more I
considered it the more I liked it. I read the _Tempest_
carefully, and saw how Shakespeare had given the chance of
such a view of Ariel as the spirit of enterprise, and had
struck the keynote of any amount of fun in the humorous
notion of Prospero being absolutely dependent upon his
“properties” for his magic power. Evidently he had not had
them with him when he was turned adrift by Gonzago in a boat
with his child; or rather, as he must have had them with him
(according to his own account) they were so packed up he
couldn’t get at them; otherwise, where would his enemies
have been? Caliban’s one idea was to possess himself of the
book. Well, in him I see a backward boy (done out of his
rights, by the way), who, however, wants to acquire
knowledge, and who does so in the end. How dull Miranda
found the island you can judge from her speeches, and from
her going to sleep when her father is prosing. The
conspirators, and the remorseful king, are minor characters,
calling for no particular remark, except as padding to
sustain a weakish plot. Now what do I do? Burlesque it? Not
in the sense in which I understand burlesque, as, for
instance, I burlesqued _Fédora_, _Diplomacy_, Ouida’s
_Strathmore_, &c., &c. No; but I take the story and give it
a turn similar (though not the same) to what Thackeray gave
to _Ivanhoe_ in _Rebecca and Rowena_. He took up the tale
where Scott left off, but he reproduced the scenes and
characters under changed conditions. I take the story with
its leading characters; I omit the tempest entirely (only a
sea-fog, when Prospero had forecasted a “disturbance”), and
Ariel, capable of assuming all sorts of shapes and forms,
does so and wrecks the ship. The arrangement of scenes
doesn’t follow the play. Of course Trinculo and Stephano are
not in it, for no one making a new comic story could take
them or Caliban as far as he is associated with them and
make them more funny, whether in dialogue or in business (I
know it all, having studied it) than they are in the piece.
No one _could_ take the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and
produce a modern extravaganza, though they might (as Planché
did) use the fairies out of it, who are immortal. No one
deprecates a vulgar, coarse piece of buffoonery by way of
burlesque more than I do. I have undertaken this very work
as an advance on _Blue Beard_, as _Blue Beard_ was (though
you would not recognise it) a distinct advance on what had
preceded it. It forms one of the “burlesque drama” series――a
generic title to which I have objections, but by which Mr.
John Hollingshead sets store――and as it is a matter of
indifference to the public whether what is really an
extravaganza comes under the above heading, I havn’t any
more to say, but the sum is that I am distinctly not
burlesquing Shakespeare’s _Tempest_, as by burlesquing I
understand my mode of treatment of Sardou’s _Fédora_,
_Diplomacy_, Ouida’s _Strathmore_, &c., &c.”

In September 1883, Mr. Hollingshead also wrote to the _Daily News_ as follows:――

“It may interest those who are curious in theatrical history
to learn that the last London performance of “The Enchanted
Isle,” a burlesque upon Shakespeare’s “Tempest,” by William
and Robert Brough, was played at Drury Lane Theatre on the
25th July, 1860, for the benefit of the widow and children
of Robert Brough, one of the authors. The cast was as
follows: Ariel, Miss Kate Terry, (then in the height of her
popularity); Ferdinand, Mrs. Alfred Mellon (Miss Woolgar);
Miranda, Miss Fanny Stirling (a daughter of Mrs. Stirling,
her first appearance on the stage); Caliban, Mr. F.
Talfourd; Alonzo, Mr. George Cruikshank; Prospero, Mr.
Leicester Buckingham; and Trinculo, by the writer of this
note.”

Mr. Moy Thomas followed up this letter by stating that:――-

“Mr. Burnand and has unearthed in the British Museum library
an acting copy of Davenant and Dryden’s version of the
“Tempest; or the Enchanted Isle,” which he will probably
expound for the benefit of readers in an early number of
_Punch_. Sir Walter Scott’s account of this piece is perhaps
worth transcribing here:――‘It seems probable that Dryden
furnished the language, and Davenant the plan, of the new
characters introduced. They do but little honour to his
invention, although Dryden has highly extolled it in his
preface. The idea of a counterpart to Shakspeare’s plot by
introducing a man who had never seen a woman, as a contrast
to a woman who had never seen a man, and by furnishing
Caliban with a sister-monster, seems hardly worthy of the
delight with which Dryden says he filled up the characters
so sketched. In mixing his tints Dryden did not omit that
peculiar colouring in which his age delighted. Miranda’s
simplicity is converted into indelicacy…. The play seems to
have succeeded to the utmost wish of the authors. It was
brought out in the Duke’s house [Lincoln’s-inn-fields
Theatre, November, 1667], of which Davenant was the manager,
with all the splendour of scenic decoration of which he was
the inventor. The opening scene was described as being
particularly splendid, and the performance of the spirits
with mops and mows excited general applause!’”

――――:o:――――

HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY.

No one passage from the plays of Shakespeare has been so frequently parodied, and imitated, as the celebrated Soliloquy commencing “TO BE, OR NOT TO BE.” The following version of the original is taken from the famous Folio edition of Shakespeare’s works put forth in 1623. In addition to the quaint orthography, there are one or two verbal differences between this, and the version given in modern editions of the poet’s works; notably the expression “the poor man’s contumely,” which is now generally printed as “the proud man’s contumely:”――

_Enter Hamlet._

_Ham._――To be, or not to be, that is the Question:
Whether ’tis Nobler in the minde to suffer
The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune,
Or to take Armes against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleepe
No more; and by a sleepe, to say we end
The Heart-ake, and the thousand Naturall shockes
That Flesh is heyre too? ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To dye, to sleepe,
To sleepe, perchance to Dreame; I, there’s the rub,
For in that sleepe of death, what dreames may come,
When we have shuffle’d off this mortall coile,
Must give us pawse. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life;
For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time,
The Oppressors wrong, the poore man’s Contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d Love, the Lawes delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himselfe might his _Quietus_ make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardles beare,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Countrey, from whose Borne
No Traveller returnes, Puzels the will,
And makes us rather beare those illes we have,
Than flye to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hew of Resolution
Is sicklied o’re, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard their Currants turne away,
And loose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The faire _Ophelia_? Nimph, in thy Orizons
Be all my sinnes remembred.
_The Tragedie of Hamlet._

――――:o:――――

Amongst the announcements for April, 1846, in George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack appeared the following:――

APRIL.

The Shakespeare Jubilee Festival will be celebrated at the
“Only National Theatre” on the 23rd, with the following
performances:――

The Grand Opera of ‘HAMLET;’ the Music by Mr. Balfe; the
_libretto_ by Messrs. Shakespeare and Bunn.

From the Opera, the following song may be predicted to be
sung by the first tenor, Hamlet:――

“TO BE, OR NOT TO BE.”

“Oh say! To be, or not to be?
That is the question grave;
To suffer Fortune’s slings and darts,
Or seas of troubles brave.
To die, to sleep! perchance, to dream!――
Ay, there’s the rub! when we
Have shuffled off this mortal coil!――
To be, or not to be!

Oh! who would bear time’s whips and scorns,
The pangs of disprized love;
When he might his quietus make
By one bare bodkin’s shove?
Who would these fardels bear, unless
That bourne he could foresee,
From which no traveller returns!――
To be, or not to be!”

Arrangements will be made for the characters to promenade in
the daytime full dressed, upon the top of the Portico, to
the Music of the Orchestra in Beef-eaters dresses. The
pageant will be very splendid.

――――:o:――――

To be or not to be?――that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
Vile strokes and scratches from outrageous Pens,
Or to take up THATCHER’S, ’gainst a sea of others,
And, using it, to end them? To write――with ease――
For ever! And with that ease to say we end
The headache and the thousand natural shocks
Which clerks are heir to――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To write――with ease――
With ease! enhanced to speed! Aye, there’s the rub!
As ’tis with ease of Pen our thoughts will flow,
Now we have shuffled off that mortal toil
We cease to pause! Here’s the good Pen
That lessens the calamities of life;
For who will suffer the whips and scorns of time,
The writer’s wrongs, the schoolmaster’s contumely?
The fangs of despised Pens, cause of delays
A nuisance in an office, and the spurns
Which patient merit of Pen unworthy takes,
When he himself can his quietus make
By using THATCHER’S? Who would Gillott’s bear,
Or grunt and sweat over a Mitchell’s J,
When but the act of trying THATCHER’S Pen,
That well-discovered luxury, from which boon
No traveller will turn, puzzles no will,
And makes us cease to bear the ills we had――
To write with comfort, which we knew not of?
As knowledge should make wise men of us all,
Then let the native hue of resolution
Stick fast no more, ’til this good Pen is sought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this resolve their currents turn or glide
The Pen, the spring, of action!
SHAKESPEN.

This trade Parody was written by Mr. T. THATCHER, of College Green, Bristol.

――――:o:――――

The following Parody appeared originally in _Punch_, February 9, 1884, and was afterwards reprinted, without the slightest acknowledgement, in a silly little pamphlet entitled “The Burlesque of Liberal Government,” published by Stoneham, of Cheapside, in 1884. It referred to Sir William Vernon Harcourt’s proposals to reform the abuses in the government of the Metropolis:――

IRRESOLUTION.

SCENE――_The Home Office――Tables covered with huge heaps of
official returns, from the Corporation, the Metropolitan
Board of Works, and the Thirty-Eight Districts of the
Metropolis._

_The HOME SECRETARY_ discovered, looking weary and worn.
He throws himself back in his uneasy chair, and soliloquises_――

To be, or not to be, that is the question;――
Whether ’tis better for awhile to suffer
The harmless follies of the Corporation;
Or to bring on myself a sea of troubles,
Much easier raised than ended? To pass my Bill,――
No more: and by a Bill, to say we end
The headache, and the thousand natural worries
That place is heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d? To pass my Bill;――
To pass! perchance to fail;――ay, there’s the rub!
And in that fierce debate what Cads will come,
When they have shuffled much in that turmoil,
And give me their paws! There’s the respect
That makes calamity of my bored life;
For who would bear the patronage of FIRTH,
The oppressive candour of that proud man BEALE,
The pangs of chaffing DILKE, SELBORNE’S delay,
The insolence of CHAMBERLAIN, and the spurns
My patient merit of the PREMIER takes,
When he himself might peace and quiet make
By mere inaction? Who would boredom bear,
To groan and sweat under official life,
But that the thought of doing something great――
That undiscovered thing, that seldom comes
To poor Home Secretaries――urges me on,
Though I would rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that I know not of?
Thus, too, sharp Londoners, poor cowards all,
May think――if so, I pall in resolution.
My enterprise, though of great pith and moment,
Which none regard, and which seems all awry,
Loses the name of action.

――――:o:――――

“Messrs. Chatto and Windus――Heaven bless them for their generosity!――sent me the other day a copy of Mark Twain’s new book, ‘Huckleberry Finn.’ The book is an extremely funny book; but, for all that, I couldn’t make out why it was sent to me until I came upon an entirely new reading of Hamlet’s soliliquy. Messrs. C. and W. evidently wish me to say, and I do so with great pleasure, that Mr. Mark Twain’s new reading is at least as original, and very much more entertaining, than the new readings with which we are nowadays so constantly inundated. Let readers judge for themselves:”

To be or not to be; that is the bare bodkin
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane,
But that the fear of something after death
Murders the innocent sleep,
Great nature’s second course,
And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune
Than fly to others that we know not of.
There’s the respect must give us pause:
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The law’s delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take,
In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn
In customary suits of solemn black,
But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller
returns,
Breathes forth contagion on the world,
And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i’ the adage,
Is sicklied o’er with care,
And all the clouds that lowered o’er our housetops,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair
Ophelia;
Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,
But get thee to a nunnery――go!
CARADOS.
_The Referee_, Dec. 21, 1884.

――――:o:――――

SOLILOQUY ON SPECULATION.

To act, or not to act, that is the question?
Whether ’tis better for the purse to suffer,
The stocks and shares to fall without a “spec”
Or to proceed against this sea of bubbles
And venture a transaction? To bull, to bull
No more; but by a bear to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
The “House” is heir to――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To bear――to sell
To bear――watch settling day! ay――there’s the rub
For in that sale of stock what wealth may come
Ay, marry and go, if we bear not in mind,
We must buy back.――There’s the respect.
That makes a bubble stock of so long life
For who would bull, who now can see the past,
Directors deeds and chairmen’s soft smooth words;
The pangs of broken faith, the laws delay
The insolence of office, and the spurns,
Impatient shareholders are forced to take,
When he himself might a large fortune make,
With a “Bear Broker”? Who would railways bull
To grunt and sweat as each account comes round,
But for the hope that things may take a turn
That “Boards” may learn a lesson from the “Times”
And travellers increase――puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than bear the stocks and shares we know not of.
Thus fear of risk makes cowards of us all,
And thus the bull’s enticing dream of hope
Is sicklied o’er with the misdeeds of Boards.
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard, their interest turn awry,
And cause us doubt in action.
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

To the L. H. A. S. T. M.――“I have the honour to announce that, as an earnest searcher after truth, my recent efforts have been rewarded beyond my most sanguine expectations. To the subscriber has been accorded the distinguished honour of being the medium of exposing to the world a literary gem, which, under other auspices, would probably never have seen the light; and mankind would have remained in utter ignorance of the great treasure herewith reproduced for the delectation of the S. T. M.’s. Those distinguished archæologists and Biblicists exhumed the original manuscript from beneath the corner-stone of the first Solomonial edifice; therefore its authenticity and antiquity are indubitable, while the sound philosophy, immense depth of thought and convincing logic, reminds us of the divine Shakespeare. Let it speak for itself.” BRICKS, JR.

POME――FRAGMENT.
_Hemlock, Prince of Dunkirk._

_Hemlock_ (_solus)_――To affiliate, or not to affiliate, that is the
question――
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and taunts of official lunkheads
Or to take up arms against their petty torments
And, by opposing, end them. To affiliate――to disburse
No more――and by disbursing, to say we end
The contemptuous glances and the frowning looks
That non-affiliation brings us, ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To be willing to pay――to be proposed――
To be proposed; perchance to be rejected. Ay, there’s the rub,
For, in that rejection, what heart-burnings, what bitter
thoughts may come when the finger points――unworthy!
Must give us pause. There’s the consideration
That produces doubt and misgiving,
For who would bear the whips and scorn of temporizers
The pains and penalties of Section _Forty-two_――
_The deprivation of visitation_――_the interment
Prohibited_――_the funeral interdicted_――the Charity
Recalled――that great channel through which
God passes all his mercy upon mankind;
The insolence of office-holding rings, and _sich_,
When he himself might be relieved by disbursing
“Four dollars and nine-shilling”――but for a knowledge
That a lust for power (precursor of dissolution) the ambition
Which with haughty tread doth trample Charity in the dust,
While judgment, directed by circumspection,
Hath taken wings and flown to parts unknown,
To know our offerings at Charity’s shrine are diverted
To organs grand, and gorgeous halls,
Services of plate, banquets grand, and the pendant liquids
And _ten thousand_ other reasons, which salary lists proclaim,
Make us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to those we know too much of.

PATERFAMILIAS AS HAMLET.

_Ham._――To bake, or not to bake, that is the question:――
Whether ’tis better for ourselves to make
Digestive, light, sweet, wholesome home-made bread;
Or to take in tradesmen’s loaves against our sense,
And, nothing heeding, eat them?――To eat――eat what?――
The trough’s abominations without end:
The cockroach! a thousand unnatural things
The bakehouse teems with,――’tis adulteration
Devoutly to be shun’d. Impure? Or pure?
’Praps pure! perchance impure:――ay, there’s the rub;
For in this loaf of bread what dirt may come
From unclean baker at his midnight toil,
Must give us pause: There’s the respect
That takes all relish from the staff of life:
For who that reads his _Lancet_, or his _Times_,
Would eat this stuff the baker sends, contentedly,
Knowing full well from analysts’ reports
And sanitary officers’ returns,
The noisome mysteries of the baker’s art,
When he himself bread, cakes, and scones may make
With Borwick’s Baking Powder?

_Funny Folks_, December, 1883.

――――:o:――――

HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY ON THE TURKISH BATH.
SCENE――_Opposite the Turkish Bath, West Street, Brighton._

_Ham._――To bathe, or not to bathe,――that is the question;
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer
The aches and pangs of disordered nature,
Or to take baths against a sea of troubles
And by so doing end them? To strip――to sweat,
No more; and, by a roast, to say we end
The headache, and a thousand natural ills
That flesh is heir to,――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To strip,――to sweat:――
To sweat! and be shampooed:――aye, there’s the rub;
For in that heat such evils may remove
We need not shuffle off this mortal coil,
But save our lives. ’Tis this experience
That makes so many take the Turkish Bath;
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The consumptive’s cough, the fat man’s obesity,
The pangs of dyspepsia, or Bright’s disease,
The torturings of asthma, or the woes
That Alcohol upon the inebriate brings,
When he himself might his deliverance take
With a bare body? Who would rheumatism bear,
And grunt and groan under a weary life?
But that an ignorance of Turkish baths,
Those re-discovered pleasures, unto which
Wise travellers return, doth still prevail,
And makes us tamely bear those ills we have,
Heedless of remedies that we know not of.
Thus ignorance oft makes wretches of us all;
And thus the native hue of health and vigour
Is sicklied o’er with the pallor of disease.
But thus, I ween, it shall not be with me;
The good I know, and oft have tried, again
I will embrace. Clerk, in thy dressing rooms
Hast thou a place for me?
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

SEASONABLE SOLILOQUY.

To Bee, or not to Bee, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous spelling,
Or to take arms ’gainst orthographic troubles,
And, by the Dictionary, end them!

――――:o:――――

A PUGILISTIC SOLILOQUY.

To box, or not to box? That is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous passions,
Or to take heart, like Humphreys and Mendoza,
And, by opposing, end them. To strip, to bare,
No more! and by this movement, say we end
The heart-ache, and a thousand galling jeers
The passive’s heir to;――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To strip――to square――
To fight;――perchance be beat:――aye, there’s the rub!
For by that daring step, what blows may come,
When we have shuffled off our coats and shirts,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect,
That makes this diffidence of so long life;
For who would bear the taunts and sneers o’ the mob,
The pangs of being unknown, and fame’s delay,
The porter’s wrongs, the coal heaver’s contumely
The ins’lence of profession, and the spurns
That patient merit of the pug’list takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a well-planted blow? Who’d reproaches bear,
To fret and fume beneath a doubtful state,
But that a dread of something _on the Stage_,
(The undetermin’d trial, from whose bourne
Earle ne’er returned,) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
This fear of drubbing makes us cowards all;
And thus the wish of native resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear,
And the skill’d manœuvres in each well-graced ring,
With this respect their profits turn away,
And lose the fame of boxing.
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

The Electors of Barrhead, by 570 to 317, have gone against erecting their town into a Burgh. Coatbridge, with a population of 20,000 or 30,000, is also agitating on this subject. Saltcotians are meantime deeply interested in the question――and the struggle between the burgh and anti-burgh party, as must always be the case when the powers of dirt and darkness, and light and cleanliness, come into collision with each other, promises to be a keen one. According to a native residing in Glasgow, “Insider” ruminates and thus soliloquises:――

“INSIDER’S” SOLILOQUY.
(_With apologies to the shade of Shakespeare._)

Burgh, or No-Burgh――that’s the question:――
Whether ’tis nobler in the town to suffer
The gibes and scorn of all who visit it;
Or to become a Burgh, and so end,
Once and for ever end them?――Being then
A Burgh, it will end its dirt and darkness,
Ruin and danger.――’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To be a Burgh!
Perchance to pay a tax;――ay, there’s the rub;
For in that tax what shillings we may pay,
When we have wakened from our old-world sleep,
Must give us pause; there’s the respect
That makes our slothfulness of so long life:
For who would bear to walk, with fear and care,
Adown the ruined Quay, or try to gain,
O’er heaps of broken walls, the sandy shore;
Or pick his steps in the dim-lighted streets,
Through muddy holes and ancient filthiness,
When he himself his safety might ensure
By voting for the Burgh? Who would bear
To see his native town a laughing stock;
But that the thought of something afterwards――
The dread of Burgh taxes, which may grow
Greater each year――puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of;
Thus does our greediness become our bane;
And thus, to save our purses, we oppose
The Burgh movement; for we fondly hope
To dupe the working men, and frighten all
Who love their purses better than their health,
And lapse into our old inaction.

_The Ardrossan and Saltcoats Herald_, February, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION, NO. 197.

The prize of two guineas for the best original parody of Hamlet’s soliloquy, with reference to the Suez Canal question, was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, 96, Gore Road, Victoria Park, for the following:――

GLADSTONE’S SOLILOQUY.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis prudent for the House to suffer
The fierce, protracted, venomous discussion,
Or to shake off the coils of this agreement,
And for the present waive it? To win: to lose
What more? entail defeat and ne’er regain
The faith, esteem, and people’s confidence
That we are used to, ’tis humiliation
Liberals must avoid. To win, to lose;
To lose the love of France: ay, there’s the rub;
For with that loss of love what may arise
When we’ve insulted her, and can’t retract,
Must give us pause; there is the chance
To shake our alliance of so long time.
And who would have to bear the blame of all?
The enormous loan, the widespread disapproval,
The present shareholders, the law against us,
The snubs when out of office, and the hate
Of all our vast commercial agencies,
When he in time can extricate himself
Without a blemish? Who would these risks incur
To put the test under an adverse fire,
But with the hope that some good may arise?
The overgrowing country from whose shores
The mariner departs, enters the mind
And makes us rather look ahead to-day
Than lie asleep whilst others claim the palm.
Yet second thoughts are wiser, after all;
And thus my former full determination
Gives way before the strong opposing force;
The enterprise, though great and costly also,
I still regard, but now must turn away
Amidst dissatisfaction.

The four following parodies, on the same topic, were also printed:――

To yield, or not to yield; that is the question;
Whether ’tis wiser that my party bear
The jeers and scoffings of the Tory rabble,
Or to stand bravely ’gainst their blust’ring onset,
And by opposing beat them? To vote; to win;
No more; and by a vote to say we end
The torture and the thousand natural fears
That we are heirs to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To vote, to win;
To win: perchance to fail; ay, there’s the rub;
For in that dread event what woes may come
When we are left in thin minority,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of party life;
For who would bear Sir Stafford’s taunting smile,
Cynic Cecil’s chuckle, country’s contumely,
The pangs of sore defeat, the law’s delay,
Conservatives in office, and the spurns
That fallen power from parasites must take,
When I myself can calm commotion’s roar
With my well-known talent? Who would office bear,
To toil and legislate for thankless men,
But that the fear of Tories gaining pow’r,
Those owl-tongued peace-disturbers from whose tongues
No sound but hate can come, puzzles the will
And makes us bear content the ills we have
Than risk the presence of a Jingo curse?
Thus consequence makes cowards of us all;
And thus my native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And my pet project of a Suez Canal,
With this regard its current fails to take;
Let Northcote take his action.
ARAMIS.

――――――――

Canal, or no canal: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The wrath of shipowners who’d mend their fortune,
Or take upon us more Egyptian troubles,
And by “investing” vex them? To spend; to spout;
No more; and by a “vote” to say we’ll end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That greed is heir to. Is this a consummation
Devoutly to be wished? To vote, to lend;
Perchance to lose eight millions; there’s the rub;
For in this loan of ours what loss may come
Ere we would shuffle off responsibility,
There’s time to pause: there’s the respect,
That makes “annexing” fruitful of long strife;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of foes,
The oppressor’s wrong, the victor’s contumely,
The pangs of despised race, their rights’ delay,
The insolence of conquest, and the spurns,
The patient fellah (fellow) of the unkindly takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bayonet? Should we burdens bear,
To pay stockjobbers and their risks to share,
But that the hope of something afterwards,
The undiscovered but expected boon,
The speculator’s rich return, pleases the will
And makes us rash to dare this foreign venture,
And buy up “shares” we have no warrant of.
Thus Mammon does make victims of us all;
And thus our native, honest resolution
Is weakened e’er by greedy thought of gain,
And enterprises of more pith and moment
We disregard, their currents turn awry,
And thus we lose the means of nobler action.
F. BEAUMONT COTTIER.

――――――――

To dig, or not to dig; that’s what doth pest one:
Whether ’tis wiser on our part to offer
Eight millions――and it is no narrow fortune――
Or fold our arms because we see these troubles,
And end the din of words? To pause: to take our chance;
E’en so; and by the act to say we’re sick
Of all the bosh men talk; and to hear more
We cannot bear to. ’Twere a realisation
That must please us. To pause, to take our chance;
To take our chance; perhaps be fooled; ay, that’s the point;
For in the Frenchmen’s hand what cards may come
When he alone doth shuffle them! He’d spoil
For us the game. He can’t expect
We’ll cease, for love of amity, from strife;
For who would bear, forsooth, for so long time,
The outrageous wrong, the proud man’s triumphing,
The being beat, the excessive dues to pay,
The chaff of grinning Frenchmen, and the sneers
That easy John Bull far too often brooks,
When we ourselves may our conditions make,
Nor do an odd thing? Who would knuckle down,
And pay the piper as we’re asked to do,
But that the dread of being talked to death,
A fate to be discovered none too soon
As hanging over us, quite makes us ill,
And makes us rather rest with what we have
Than try to get what others owe not of?
Thus love of quiet doth make noodles of us all:
And thus, though we discern rare elocution,
We fickly fail, alas! so to be taught,
One criticises till there comes a moment
When we can have no finger in the pie,
And all through our inaction.
T. M. DRON.

――――――――

To pay, or not to pay: that was the question;
Whether ’twas best with one canal to suffer,
And trade to harass for the Frenchman’s fortune,
Or to take heart ’gainst this canal of troubles,
A scheme propose, and end them? To make it deep;
Nay, more; both wide and deep is, p’r’aps, a way to end
And obviate the thousand natural blocks
That ships declare to. ’Tis hallucination,
And scarcely to be wished, to try and keep
As ’tis, perchance, this stream where vessels rub;
For with increase of trade what ships may come
When we have shuffled off this monstrous toll?
Now let us pause: there’s the respect
We yield Lesseps, his useful and long life,
Who bore for this the scorns of other times,
His opponents’ wrong, the proud “Pam’s” contumely,
The pangs of jealous hate: the long delays,
The insolence of scoffers and the turns
The patient Frenchman saw this project take,
While he his channel still successful made――
Unlike Sir Watkin! Oh, if ’twas hard to bear
The grudged four millions during Dizzy’s life
(That give but doubtful ’vantage since his death),
An undiscovered boon from which we get
No adequate returns, this puzzle o’ Will’s
Would make us rather bear the tolls we have
Than strive for others at so vast a price?
Thus caution does make now our statesmen pause;
And thus was fated soon this resolution;
For, sicklied o’er with the pale cast of cost,
This enterprise who could hold with a moment?
In this regard ’twas bound to turn awry,
Or lose the nation’s sanction.
LEONARD HARDING.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, August 5, 1883.

――――:o:――――

BY AN ATTORNEY.

To cheat or not to cheat, that is the question;
Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer
The stings and gnawings of a troubled conscience,
Or bravely spurn corruptions gilded baits,
And, by rejecting, ’scape ’em? To cheat, to need
No more; and by such gain, to say we end
The thousand hardships which the poor man seems
To be born heir to; ’tis a consummation
Too often wished by us; to cheat unseen
To cheat――perchance be caught; ay, there’s the rub;
For by discovery what shame may come
When we have lost the necessary mask,
Must give us pause; there is the respect
That makes dishonesty embitter life:
For who would bear the gibes and taunts of men,
The oppressed’s curse, the good man’s contumely,
The pangs of unpaid fees, the laws severity
In taxing bills, and the harsh reprimands
That merit often to th’unworthy gives,
When he in peace might his quietus make
On a poor farm. Who would long parchments write,
And scrawl and pause amidst a heap of nonsense?
But that the dread of ghastly poverty,
Whose horrid visage, like the Gorgon’s head,
No mortal dares behold, startles the mind
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than suffer others that we dread far worse.
Thus avarice makes rascals of us all,
And thus the comely face of honesty,
Is tarnished o’er by ill-designing knaves,
Who toil among the labyrinths of law,
In search of matter to perplex mankind
And leave the paths of wisdom.
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

HAMLET ON THE SITUATION.
(_Perplexed Premier Ponders._)

Clôture, or no _Clôture_? That is the question:――
Whether ’tis better, on the whole, to suffer
The waste and worry of malign obstruction,
Or to take arms against the plague of spouters,
And, by mouth-closing, foil them. To rise――to vote――
No more; and, by a vote, to find we end
The boredom and the thousand Warton “blocks”
The Session’s heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To rise――to vote――
To vote! Perchance to gag. Ay, there’s the rub;
For from that Vote what tyranny may come,
When we have wriggled from Obstruction’s coil
Must give us pause. There’s the consideration
That makes endurance of so long a life.
For who would bear the quips and quirks of BARTLETT,
Tart BIGGAR’S tongue, O’DONNELL’S contumely,
The gibes of gadfly GORST, WARTON’S delay,
The cheek of callow CHURCHILL, and the spurns
That patient FORSTER of rude HEALY takes,
When he to them might their quietus give
With a bare majority? Who’d night sittings bear,
To yawn and faint for twenty weary hours,
But that the fear of after-hurt to freedom――
That glory of our country, whose wide bourn
No Liberal would limit, clogs the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that we may not measure.
Thus caution does make cowards of us all;
And thus the Statesman’s native resolution,
Is hampered by the cobweb coils of doubt,
And politicians of great pith and prowess,
From this reform their faces turn aside,
Dreading the name of――_Clôture_.

_Punch_, February 4, 1882.

――――:o:――――

To come! or not to come? That’s the question!
Whether it is better to take French leave,
Or to obey the calls of an outrageous audience,
And by appearing end them? To come! to speak! no more;
And by that speech to say, I thank ye for this crowded house.
This is a consummation devoutly to be wished.
To come! to speak! to speak, perchance to stick;
Aye, there’s the rub, for after this final speech,
I wish those dreams may come,
When I have shuffled off this mimic toil,
That tell me I have merited your applause.
There’s the respect that makes the memory
Of your favours of so long life;
For who would strut, and rehearse long parts,
To groan and sweat under some worrying manager,
But that the dread of a bad benefit,
An empty theatre, from whose pit and boxes
No profits are returned――puzzles the pocket,
And makes us rather keep those shin-plasters we have,
Than fly to dollars that we know not of;
Thus interest does make converts of us all,
And thus my resolution to leave New York
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And though my speech is not quite pithy at this moment,
As on the East River’s current I do turn away,
Your kindness I’ll remember, till I lose the name of Finn.

HENRY J. FINN.

――――:o:――――

Compromise or no compromise, that is――one _must_ of course quote from _Hamlet_ just now――the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind――I mean the Marquis――to suffer the Franchise Bill to pass, or to take arms against the Commons, and, by opposing, end the Lords――or mend them. To speak, to vote――no more; and by a vote to end the heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks their Lordships have of late received. To vote, perchance to lose the day. Ay, there’s the rub; for in that loss what――――? But it’s quite impossible to go on any longer in this strain. In fact, the strain’s too much. Perhaps it will prove too much for his Lordship. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!

_Funny Folks_, Nov. 1, 1884.

――――:o:――――

WHETHER MARRIED LADIES OUGHT TO DANCE?

To dance, or not to dance: that is the question:
Whether ’tis better in the matron to avoid
The turns and whirls of an outrageous waltz,
And to take arms against the steps of ball-rooms,
And by opposing, shirk them? To skip; to whirl;
No more. And for a dame to say, she’ll not thus end
The day, and all the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to――it is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To skip――to whirl――
To reel; perchance to fall: ay! there’s the rub;
For in that fall what sad mishaps may come,
If not to shuffle off her mortal coil,
Must give her pause. Then to reflect――
Whether a dance is necessary to her life
Why should she bear the wheels and turns of time
The orchestra inflicts, her partner’s impetuosity,
The pangs of dissipated time, the late hours’ delay,
The rotation of the ball-room, and the chills
That she may feel, when she departure takes,
When she herself might her quietus make
By her own fireside? Who would fardels bear,
And puff and stew under a gas-lit roof,
Did she not think there’s something pleasant there――
Some undiscover’d measure, from whence to charm
With renew’d returns, puzzles the will
And makes her bear the pills and draughts,
Or fly to other drugs she knows not of?
So conscience may cause refrain from all
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sickled o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And entertainments of great glare and moment,
With less regard, the current of her thoughts
May turn away, and lose the name of action.
THE SWAN’S GHOST (_Second Appearance_).
_Judy_, December 13, 1871.

――――:o:――――

HAMLET IN A STATE OF LIQUOR.

To drink, or not to drink, that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler for a man to suffer
The desperate longings of outrageous thirst,
Or take up the bottle against a sea of troubles,
And by drinking, end them? To drink――to
Stagger――no more, and by a fall to say we get
Headache, and the thousand natural shocks
Which the drunkard is heir to.――’Tis a
Consummation devoutly to be dreaded!
To fall――to sleep perchance――and waken
In the station-house! Aye! there’s the rub!
For in that drunken scene what falls, what
Bruises, what fines from the Mayor may come
When we have shuffled off the Jailer
Should well be pondered.――
There’s the cause that makes the drunkard’s
So short a life. For who would bear
The jeers and scorns of men; the employer’s
Wrong; the sober men’s contumely; the pang
Of rejected love; the uncertainty of office;
And the spurns that patient sobriety to inebriates
Gives, when he himself might his life prolong
By taking “the pledge?” Who would then
“Mint Juleps” drink, to reel and totter
Into a dirty gutter? When the dread of something
After one gets home, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather throw the spirits
That we have away! than fly
To a wife’s angry spirits we know _too well of_.
Thus whisky does make drunkards of us all
Who lack the native hue of resolution;
And man’s nose is sicklied o’er with the red cast
Of drink! and all his limbs
Their motions turn awry,
And lose their power of――Equilibrium.

_American Paper._

――――:o:――――

To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler inwardly to suffer
The pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach,
Or to take brandy-toddy ’gainst the colic,
And by imbibing, end it? To drink――to sleep――
To snore; and, by a snooze, to say we end
The headache, and the morning’s parching thirst,
That drinking’s heir to;――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To drink――to pay――
To pay the waiter’s bill? Ay, there’s the rub;
For in that snipe-like bill a stop may come,
When we would shuffle off our mortal score,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes sobriety of so long date;
For who could bear to hear the glasses ring
In concert clear――the chairman’s ready toast,
The pops of out-drawn corks――the “hip hurrah!”
The eloquence of claret――and the songs
Which often through the noisy revel break,
When a man might his quietus make
With a full bottle? Who would sober be,
Or sip weak coffee through the livelong night;
But that the dread of being laid upon
That stretcher by policemen borne, on which
The reveller reclines,――puzzles me much,
And makes me rather tipple gingerbeer,
Than fly to brandy, or to Hodge’s gin,
Thus poverty doth make us Temp’rance men.
X. X. TEETOTALLER.
_Punch_, October 30, 1841.

――――:o:――――

_Enter_ HAMLET (advances thoughtfully to front, and produces a bottle, labelled “Old Tom.”)