Chapter XVIII: Prologue (2)

To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.
Whether ’tis better to let cares infest one,
And put up with misfortunes, such as are
A wicious mother and a poison’d Pa,――
Or, with this pocket pistol to my brain,
Plunge in Blue Ruin the Blue Devil’s train!
To drink――to feel with each successive “go”
Some pang depart, till Hope alone doth glow,
As in Pandora’s reticule――the plan
Looks a good opening for a nice young man!
So easy too――to drink, to sleep, to dream――
There’s more in that though than at first doth seem;
For I have heard the restless toper knows
(When he has shuffled off his bed the clothes)
Nocturnal horrors! _Spirits_, floor’d by day,
Rise up in vengeance, and assert their sway:――
Some grin like gurgoyles; like night-mares infest
His sleep, and chaff him; some upon his breast
Dance endless Polkas; some fan fever’s flame,――
Vex him with thirst, and of his thirst make game;
Bring Schweppe’s ic’d waters to his dreaming gaze――
Just to his mouth the claret cup they raise――
And while, like Tantalus, he may not sip,
Cool lumps of “Wenham” bob against his lip!
――――I will _not_ drink! No bottle imp shall make
Of me a _Sponge_, and then a _Tipsy Cake_.
Yet I’ve a deed to do, and need to prime,
Like a mild lover at the “popping” time;
Like cockney fox-hunter of lily heart,
Who needs the jumping-powder ere he start;
Like the dread toothache’s victim, ere he try
The artist who can _draw on ivory_;
Like waking men who find, that over-night
They’ve lost a sum, ’tis not convenient quite
To pay; or those by whose bed-side doth stand
The punctual Second, pistol-case in hand!
Like――Soft, she comes, I must feign mad a-while;
If the cook flirts, the goose is sure to spile.

From _Hamlet Travestie_, a clever Burlesque in two acts, written by a son of the late Serjeant Talfourd, and published by J. Vincent, of Oxford, in 1849.

――――:o:――――

To dun, or not to dun? That is the question!
Whether ’tis better that the purse should suffer
For lack of cash, by baneful emptiness,
Or by a gentle _dun_ to fill it up?
To dun――to be denied――denied with “_call again_;”
Ah! there’s the rub! for in that “_call again_”
What evils come――what disappointment sore――
Chagrin and woe; what time is wasted?
What shoes are worn, in consequence,
Must give us pain.
’Tis this that makes so many debts not worth collecting;
’Tis this which sickens business to despair,
And keeps from honest labour its reward!
While thus in language of complaint we speak,
We dont forget our many many friends;
To them our gratitude we owe,
To them our gratitude we freely pay;
Buoyed by their kindness, still our bark shall sail,
Enjoy the pleasing calm――
Nor dread the boist’rous gale.

_The Mirror_, July 19, 1823.

――――:o:――――

AN APROPOS SOLILOQUY.
BY A GIRL OF THE PERIOD.

To dye, or not to dye, that is the question:――
“Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer”
Th’ outrageous colour of Dame Nature born,
The very “head and _front_ of my offending”
Against the fiat of chameleon Fashion,
Or summon Art to aid me? Shall I end
This heart-ache by the “hazard of a dye”
That Fashion dooms my hair to?――Dye:――a wash:――
No more:――Poison, perhaps? ay, that’s the rub
To bring paralysis: the ‘_harmless wash_’
With lead and sulphur, from the depths profound
Of Acheron, is loaded: and who knows
But when I shuffle off last season’s coil,
And tone the little hair I call my own
To match my latest chignon’s altered hue,
Disease in my ‘frizzettes’ may lurk unseen,
Stride my back-comb, or stalk with cat-like tread
Along the parting? Let me pause, and think
How much respect to chemistry be due――
For who would bear the sneers and up-turned nose
Of female friend, the criticising eye
Of street-cad,――when (as all the papers tell)
She can herself the remedy procure
For thirteen stamps――but that a hazy dread
Of something that may happen cramps the will,
And knowledge makes a coward of the purse?
’Tis too much proved:――yet I obey thy call,
Stern mother of invention! Truefitt, in thy orisons
Be all my fears remembered.

_The Tomahawk_, January 30, 1869.

――――:o:――――

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S SOLILOQUY.

A flea or not a flea? that is the question:
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer
The stings and arrows of this insect torture,
Or to take arms against the flea that troubles,
And, by well squeezing, end him. I’ll try to sleep
Once more, and in that sleep I may some rest
In part take, and forget the thousand shocks
My flesh is bare to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. I’ll try to sleep
A sleep without a dream, (Oh, there’s a rub!)
Yet in that sleep of mine what fleas may come,
When _this_ perchance has ceased his awful toil,
And fill their maws! There’s the respect
That keeps me wide awake through all the night,
Oh! did I bear a whip, ’twould be no crime
To work the oppressor’s wrong. For who would bear
The pangs of flea-bit nose, what people say
The insolence of scoffers, and the turns
Which, all impatient, through the night he takes,
When he himself could his quietus make
Could he but catch his foe? Who would bear
Candles, and sweat under a weary search,
And set, perhaps, the bed-clothes in a blaze,
And thereby haply reach that burn from which
No traveller returns? Puzzle who will,
_I’d_ rather bear this single flea I have
Than wake up others that I know not of;
My conscience tells me ’tis a coward’s thought.
Another bite! Another resolution!
Without avail is further waste of thought.
Thus from my couch uprise I in a moment,
With swift regard the bed-clothes turned awry,
And take the field of action.
JAMES ROBINSON.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 26, 1880

――――:o:――――

OPHELIA’S VERSION.

To go, or not to go, that is the question
Whether ’tis nobler in the maid, to share
The slights and sorrows of a faded train,
Or to take steps unto the “Tempus Sale,”
And, by a purchase, end them? To go,――to buy,
No more; and at a glance to find I end
The heartache, and the thousand horrid rents
My dress is heir to――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To go――to buy,
To buy! perchance too much; aye, there’s the rub;
For in that Sale of Sales, what dreams may come,
When I have shuffled off this wretched robe
Must give me pause: Still there’s the ancient dress
That marks gentility in well-worn silk,――
Yet who would bear the flaunts and scorns of Kate,
The Mantua Maker’s grief, Pall Mall’s contumely,
The pangs of last year’s shade, the Christmas bills.
The insolence of duns, and the spurns
That Modistes give to the impecunious,
If I myself might a sensation make
With a _cash_ purchase? Who would old garments wear
And weep and pine under a withered life,
But that the dread of what Papa may say,
The library’s scold, that always
Leaves me sad, puzzles my will;
And makes me rather wear the dress I have,
Than try on others that I wot of?
Thus _credit_ does make cowards of us all;
And thus the natural cash transaction
Is sicklied o’er by the pale cast of thought;
And purchases of great value and amount
With this regard are nearly turned awry.
Yet this once I must――Parker, now!
A cab!

An Advertisement in _The Daily News_, February 1, 1878

――――:o:――――

A DENTAL SOLILOQUY.

To have it out or not? that is the question――
Whether ’tis better for the jaws to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth,
Or to take steel against a host of troubles;
And, by extracting, end them? To pull――to tug!
No more; and by a tug to say we end
The tooth-ache, and a thousand natural ills
The jaw is heir to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished? To pull――to tug!
To tug――perchance to break! Ay, there’s the rub
For in that wrench what agonies may come,
When we have half-dislodged the stubborn foe,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes an aching tooth of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The old wife’s nostrum, dentist’s contumely,
The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep’s delay
The insolence of pity, and the spurns
That patient sickness of the healthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make,
For two-and-sixpence? Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat beneath a load of pain?
But that the dread of something lodged within
The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs
No jaw at ease returns!――puzzles the will,
And makes it rather bear the ills it has
Than fly to others that it knows not of.
Thus dentists do make cowards of us all――
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear;
And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,
With this regard his footsteps turn away,
Scared at the name of dentist.
C. A. W.
From _Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal_, April 29, 1837.

――――:o:――――

THE GENT’S SOLILOQUY.

To hiss, or not to hiss, that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler in a gent to suffer
The ten-act plays of Alexandre Dumas;
Or to take arms against a _troupe_ of Frenchmen,
And by opposing, smash them? To shout――to row――
No more; and, by a row, to say we end
This Monte Christo, which so strangely shocks
The blush I’m heir to;――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To shout; to row;――
To row! and go to Quod?――ay, there’s the rub
For if that be the case, what fine may come
Next day, for kicking up this great turmoil,
Must give us pause; there’s the respect
That makes these foreigners of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and spurs of the _Cirque_
Franconi’s stud within Old Drury’s walls,
The jokes of foreign clowns, and all they say,
Their insolence in coming, which, in turn,
These fresh arrivals do but imitate,
When he himself might a quietus make
With a mere cat-call? Who would quietly sit,
And nothing understand of ten long acts,
But that the dread of something after quod――
That well-discovered country, from whose bourn
The van so oft removes,――puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear this foreign trash
Than walk to Bow-street, ’twixt two New Police!
Thus Jardine does make cowards of us all;
And thus our stock in trade of resolution
Goes oozing out at his most dreaded name;
And all our plans and projects, in a moment,
From great regard for it are all my eye,
And, what’s more――Betty Martin.

_The Puppet Show_ June 24, 1848.

(The production of Mr. Alexandre Dumas’ Drama, _Monte Christo_ by the French Company of the _Theâtre Historique_, at Drury Lane Theatre, gave rise to most discreditable scenes of disorder, owing to the jealousy then felt of foreign dramatic talent.)

THE HUNTER’S SOLILOQUY.

To hunt, or not to hunt? that is the question――
Whether ’tis prudent in the soul to suffer
The pangs of self denial, or to urge
With enthusiastic rage and bold defiance
The rapid chase;――to hunt――to ride――
No more, and by that ride to say we fly
From thought, that canker-worm to gay desires,
From cares that feed upon the lamp of life.
’Tis a fruition devoutly to be wished,
To hunt――to ride――to ride? perchance to fall;
Ay, there’s the rub――
For in the mad pursuit what falls may come,
When ev’ry hound each hardy sinew strains,
And ev’ry breeze conveys enrapt’ring sounds,
Must give us pause!――There’s the respect
That gives the fatal blow to promis’d joys,
That taints with baleful light each blooming hope,
Who would forego this madness of delight;
Who without pain could hear a chase describ’d,
Or silent sit while others boast their feats,
When he himself might mount the neighing steed,
And urge the sprightly chase? Beneath a roof
Who would wear out the tedious, doleful day,
Oppress’d with discontent and dire remorse?
But that the dread of fall precipitate,
That unknown field, where, destitute of aid,
With shiver’d limb he haply may repent
His forward zeal and fury uncontrol’d
Puzzles the will; and makes us rather pine
In humble cell, than seek for distant joys
Where pain and death th’ advent’rous hunter wait.
But hark――――
The hunter’s notes, on Zephyr’s pinion borne,
Assail my ears――――
Already Phœbus gilds the mountain
Great Phœbus, patron of the hunting crew,
Propitious smile, and vanish ev’ry doubt!

_The Mirror._ February 8, 1823.

――――:o:――――

THE DEBTOR’S SOLILOQUY.
_After Stocktaking._

To pay, or not to pay, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the man to suffer
The duns and threats of overpressing tradesmen,
Or to take arms against a sea of bills,
And, by compounding, end them? To fail, to owe
No more,――and by that act to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand front-door knocks
A debtor’s used to:――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To fail――to smash:――
To smash, perchance to starve; ay, there’s the rub;
For in that bankruptcy what strain may come,
When we have shuffled off this coil of bills,
Must give us pause:――There’s the respect
That makes calamity of commercial life.
For who would bear the slights of those he patronises
The oppressor’s writ, the bailiff’s forced possession,
The pangs of declined credit, the lawyer’s threats,
The insolence of agents, and the frequent calls
Impatient tradesmen make to get their money
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare petition? Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat under this weary strife,
But that the dread of something after failure,――
The discontented lawyer from whose clutch
No debtor ’ere escapes,――puzzles the will;
And makes us rather hear the bills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of!
Thus insolvency makes cowards of us all,
And thus the anxious heart of him who struggles on
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And shaky merchants of great name and business
With this regard some sly “arrangements” make
And lose the name of debtor.
Q. E. D.

This amusing Parody appeared in _The Walsall Observer_. January, 1881. It was written by Mr. F. J. Overton, of Walsall.

――――:o:――――

OUGHT A GENTLEMAN TO GO OUTSIDE AN OMNIBUS TO OBLIGE A LADY?

To be or not to be polite, that is the question;
Whether ’tis better in a ’bus to suffer
The torments which are ever consequent
Upon the proclamation “Full inside”;
To have your knees impress’d by tons
Of your stout neighbour’s well-drenched bombazine,
And be made a stand for her fast-dripping gamp;
Or, p’haps, a seat which, in your genteel grace,
You charitably give her half-drown’d brat,
And patiently receive the running stream
Which proves the virtues of her waterproof;
To be half-chok’d, half-suffocated
By the steam fumes, condensing as they rise,
From sodden serge and water’d silk or crape;
To bear with patience sundry visits from
The gouty foot of your aged _vis-à-vis_,
Envious of your one only favourite corn;
To feel just like a herring in a tub,
Or sardine, pickled and encased in oil――
To be, in short, a martyr to yourself,
Or victim of your ungentility?
Or be _gallant_, and, for a lady’s sake,
Deny yourself the pleasure of these woes;
Gracefully――that is, if gracefully you can,
Spite of aforesaid hindrances――yield
Your inside station to a fairer fare,
Removing to the knifeboard, there to be
The prey of downright, but more wholesome ills――
The heav’n-sent rain――not tepid drops
Reaching you second-hand, as those inside;
And as you journey on towards your home,
Find consolation in the honest thought
That you have done the very thing you ought?――
That is the question, and I solve it thus:
_A man should always ride outside a ’bus_.
C. B.
_Gossip_, May 16, 1885.

――――:o:――――

TO PRINT, OR NOT TO PRINT.

To print, or not to print――that is the question.
Whether ’tis better in a trunk to bury
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy,
Or send a well-wrote copy to the press,
And, by disclosing, end them? To print, to doubt
No more, and by one act to say we end
The headache, and a thousand natural shocks,
Of scribbling frenzy――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To print――to beam
From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well-bound;
To sleep perchance with Quarles. Ay, there’s the rub
For to what class a writer may be doomed,
When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect that makes
Th’ unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear the impatient thirst of fame,
The price of conscious merit, and ’bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? who would fardels bear?
To groan and sweat under a load of wit?
But that the tread of steep Parnassus’ hill
That undiscover’d country, with whose bays
Few travellers return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown
Than run the hazard to be known and damn’d.
Thus Critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is sicklied o’er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprisers of great fire and spirit,
With this regard, from Murray turn away,
And lose the name of authors.
REVEREND RICHARD JAGO.
(Before 1780.)
――――:o:――――

To rat, or not to rat, that is the question;――
Whether ’tis safer for a Whig to suffer
The sting of conscious inconsistency;
Or to take arms against this nest of madmen,
And by opposing, leave them. To rat――to vote――
No more; and by a vote to say we’ve done
With Ireland, and the thousand natural ills
Of Dis-establishment. A consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To rat――to vote;――
To lose perchance our seat!――Ay, there’s the rub!
For from that adverse vote what griefs may come,
When we have shuffled off this party mesh,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of Whiggery;
For who would bear the whips and votes of Glyn,
Th’ oppressive Bright, proud Gladstone’s contumely,
The sneer from Tory bench, each night’s delay,
The seeking after office, and the groans
The patient member meets with when he speaks,
When he himself might their quietus make
In the wrong lobby? Who would measures hear
For which, he voting, acts an endless lie;
But that the dread of something afterwards,
The represented “county” from whose poll
No renegade returns,――puzzles the will!
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that will plague us more!
Thus interest doth make puppets of us all;
And thus the native hue of patriotism
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of “self;”
And gentlemen of sturdy truth and honour
With this regard their conscience belie,
And lose all sense of freedom.

_Once a Week_, May 23, 1868.

――――:o:――――

THE SHAVER’S SOLILOQUY.

To shave, or not to shave; the question is,
Whether ’tis better, on the human phiz,
To let accumulation of our hair
Cover the chins and lips which now are bare;
Or to continue still to scrape away
The hirsute ornament from day to day.――
To lather――shave――perchance to gash the face?
Ay, there’s the rub; for, in this latter case,
What mis’ry’s ours! ’Tis this must give us pause,
And makes us rather let alone our jaws,
Than by continuance in the bar’brous use,
Cut, scratch, and lacerate them like the deuce,
For if it actually were the case,
That Nature never meant the human face
To be so teased and tortured as it is――
If so, I say, why then what business
Have mortals virtually to cry out
That Nature knew not what she was about?
Why since the beard was evidently meant
To grow, should men be seemingly intent
On trying to prove Nature was a dunce,
And did not know her trade? Why not at once
Pluck out the eyebrows, and extract the nails,
And shave the heads of females, and of males?
Strange ’tis that men should worship fashion, so
As to be willing thus to undergo
The pains of shaving, rather than permit
Moustache and beard to grow as they think fit.
How singular that men should still delight
In torturing their faces, when they might
Themselves their comfort, ease, and health obtain
By vowing they will never shave again?
But ’tis the dread of ridicule and scorn
Makes the foul fashion easy to be borne.
Thus custom of us all doth cowards make,
And for this savage custom, then, we take
The trouble and the pains our chins to mow,
Because it is the fashion to do so.
But thus our chins will soon no more, I hope,
Be lather’d o’er with the pale suds of soap.
Soon shall moustache and beard once more on all
Our chins wag merrily, in street and hall!

_Diogenes_, March, 1854.

――――:o:――――

A SOLILOQUY WHILST SHAVING.

To shave, or not to shave? that is the question,
Whether ’tis comfortable most to cover
One’s face all over with outrageous lather,
Or by outrageous hair, s(h)ave so much trouble,
And thus soap――pose we end it! To shave――to swear
What for? when by moustache and beard we end
The nuisance thus encouraging the locks
That flesh is _hair_ to――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To shave? To swear?
To swear! perchance, an oath――ay, there’s the rub;
For as we shave, perhaps the razor slips,
And as we _barber_ously hack our chin,
Must we then pause; in every respect
There is calamity in such a shave.
Oh, who would bear shivering in the cold
Ten minutes long to be in misery?
The pangs of getting up, with much delay,
The razor wanting strapping, and the time
The patient shaver usually takes,
When he himself might get on very well
Without a razor?――or who would be shaved,
Tweak’d by the nose as pigs for singeing are,
To groan and sweat under the barber’s hand,
And as the dread of something happening――
A pleasant slice, perhaps, taken off one’s nose;
Of course entirely against one’s will.
It makes us rather wear the honest beard,
Than fly to barbers whom we know not of.
Thus custom makes Gorillas of us all;
Although we falter in our resolution,
As lathered over with best Windsor soap,
Expecting a severe cut every moment,
We contemplate our beard with jaundiced eye,
And so prepare for action――
Soft I vow――’tis done――_Oh, feel here!_
T. F. DILLON CROKER.
_Vagrant Leaves_, Number 2.――November 1, 1866.

“My occupation is no more!” _exclaimed Sylvester Daggerwood, on assuming the vile occupation of waiter at a country inn where, on contemplating the preparations for a parish feast he made the following complaint_:

To starve, or not to starve? that is the question:――
Whether, Sylvester, thou should’st calmly bear
The yearns and gripings of internal wants,
Or take up arms against the parish treat,
And, wille nille, end it?――To eat;――to glut
Thy fill;――and, by this feast, to say thou end’st
Those cravings and the thousand rav’nous wants
That flesh is heir to――’tis an occupation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To eat;――to stuff;――
To gorge, perchance be sick! aye, there’s the rub;
For in that yearning state what pangs may come,
In easing me of superfluities,
Must make me pause:――’tis this alone
That bids me curb my longing appetite;
Else should I tamely bear fell hunger’s cries,
My stomach’s wrongs, my bowels’ piercing shrieks,
My greedy eye’s desire, the cook’s delay,
Who, insolent in office, jade-like taunts
My rav’nous appetite, that sneaking waits,
When quickly force might satisfy desire
With knife and bodkin? What all endure,
And grumbling sweat before the blazing fire,
But that the dread of sickness afterwards,
That painful operation, from whose course
No man is free, affrights my will,
And makes me rather bear those gripes I feel,
Than fly to such as might await the deed?
Thus sickness does make cowards of us all;
And thus fell resolution, arm’d by want,
Sinks, pale and coward-like, the slave of thought;
And mighty feats perform’d with knife and fork
Are left untried; so is my craving turn’d!
I lose the power of eating.――――

From _Rhapsodies_ by W. H. IRELAND, London; Longman and Rees, 1803.

[Concerning this William Henry Ireland, and his Shakespearian forgeries, it will be necessary to speak at length in some future number of _Parodies_, for the present it will suffice to mention that he composed a Tragedy, entitled _Vortigern_, which he passed off as a newly discovered work by Shakespeare. The forgery deceived some of the most learned and able critics of the day, and at length, Richard Brinsley Sheridan was prevailed upon to produce it at Drury Lane Theatre. It was only played once, on the second of April, 1796, when Mr. Kemble appeared as Vortigern, Miss Miller as Rowena, and the beautiful Mrs. Jordan as Flavia. The public, more accurate in their judgment than the critics, good humouredly laughed the piece down, and when Kemble had to speak the line:――

“And when this solemn mockery is o’er,”

the audience received it in such a manner that the fate of the tragedy was sealed. Ireland’s ingenious devices and plausible manner had convinced several learned and prominent men of the authenticity of the Shakesperian M.S.S. and, as might have been expected, when the imposition was discovered, there were many bitter caricatures and satires published at his expense. One of these, dated December 1797, is a portrait of Ireland, grasping a volume of Shakespeare, with a motto, taken from the _Maid of the Mill_:――

“Such cursed assurance
Is past all endurance.”

The following parody of Dryden’s celebrated Epigram on Milton, is appended; the lines were probably written by the Reverend William Mason:――

“Four forgers, born in one prolific age,
Much critical acumen did engage:
The first[30] was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d,
Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d.
The next had all the cunning of a Scot[31]
The third, invention, genius――nay, what not[32]
Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense
To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”

It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.

After _Vortigern and Rowena_ had been once played, and the audience had testified in the most unmistakable manner their disbelief in its authenticity, and contempt for its merits, Ireland yet had the audacity to urge Sheridan and Kemble to have a second trial; Sheridan, however, dismissed him with an emphatic negative. After Ireland had left the room, Kemble said, “Well, Sir, you cannot doubt that the play is a forgery.” “Damn the fellow,” replied Sheridan, “_I believe his face is a forgery_, he is the most specious man I ever saw!”]

――――:o:――――

OLD TUNBELLY’S SOLILOQUY.

To stick to Hoy, or not――that is the question,
Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer,
The pangs and aches of golden hopes deferred;
Or, trampling on my ancient principles,
Go to the Star at once, To go――to tip the _blunt_,
And thus enable Jack to keep in flesh;
Nay, more, to have my way, and be revenged,
On all those scoundrel writers who have been
Maligning me; O what a glorious day!
What would I give to see it? To go――to win――
To win――perchance to lose――aye, that’s the job――
For if we win, who cares for all they say,
Of rats, and bribes, and Elephants wild and tame,
And Kingsland “little affairs,” but if we lose――
And lose we may, in spite of all my weight――
What I shall do, after the poll is o’er
Should be considered now, and ere I go
Must give me pause. There’s Hoy, I fear he’ll cut
The town, if he cut out; and then poor I,
Old, friendless, and the mock of all the mob,
That once stuck fast to him, but ratting now
By hundreds and by thousands from his side,
Will hoot and hiss me in the streets and lanes;
Unable to enjoy my usual walks,
Whereby I have my health and my body huge,
By wholesome perspiration keep well down,
Within the decent weight of twenty stone――
Shall get no sleep, and then full soon shall sink,
Poor, unlamented, to a nameless grave――
Where, stead of epitaph in prose and verse.
Briefly dilating on my virtuous deeds,
Argus and Obadiah, and the crew,
Penleazers vile, will cry to all around,

“_Here lies a man, who once upheld Reform;
Allured by pelf, he turned, and straight was hither borne._

But hence, ideas like these――avaunt! delusions vain,
Far be from me the thought of coward flight,
Or unmatured resolve.

* * * * *

This is the road to _rhino_ and revenge,
And on this road, in spite of former vows,
In spite of all my ancient predilections,
In spite of Argus, hand bills, nicknames, jeers,
In spite of what the minister may think
In spite of fate, or e’en the devil himself,
This road I’ll travel. (_Exit_ waddling).

_The Argus._ April 16, 1831.

This little Journal was published in Southampton during the stirring times just previous to the election of the Parliament which settled the first great Reform Bill. _The Argus_ strongly advocated the cause of Reform, supporting the candidatures of Messrs. ATHERLEY & PENLEAZE, in opposition to Messrs. DOTTIN & HOY. At the election ATHERLEY polled 732 votes; PENLEAZE 663, whereas HOY had only 391 votes, and with the general victory of the Reform question the necessity for such a political journal as _The Argus_ was at an end. It contains many parodies satirising the prominent men of Southampton, of whom TUNBELLY was one.

――――:o:――――

THE JOURNEYMAN TAILOR’S SOLILOQUY.

To stitch or not to stitch――that is the question!
Whether ’tis better on the board to suffer
The stings of needles for capricious masters,
Or throw away one’s thimble, shears, and bodkin,
And so by tramping end them. To stitch and sweat,
No more, and by a tramp to say we end
The head-ache, and the thousand cramps and pains
We cross-legg’d folks are heirs to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To walk, to take a trip,
To rove at large――perchance to beg one’s bread!
Aye, there’s the rub――――
For by this strolling trade what want may come,
When we have shifted from a constant place,
Must give us pain. There’s the respect that keeps
One willing prisoner to the shop board still,
For who would bear the frowns of angry masters,
The jokes and jeers of scavengers and soot-boys
With all the insult of _unmanly title_,
The _honest_ tailor is obliged to take,
When he himself might his quietus make
With trav’ling. Who would slavery bear,
And groan and sweat upon a dreary shop board,
But that the thought of something worse than stitching
That sting of poverty, whose unwelcome gripe,
Few travellers escape――puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
And thus necessity keeps us tailors still:
And thus the native hue of resolution is kept up
By each industrious thought; and tailors too
Of no small pith and moment, by this regard
From tramping turn away, and lose the name
Of _vagrants_.

J――M――――N.
_The Mirror._

――――:o:――――

THE CABMAN’S SOLILOQUY.

To strike, or not to strike, that is the question:――
Whether ’tis nobler on the box to suffer
The persecutions of outrageous bobbies,
Or to take arms against the rising public,
And serve them out by striking. That is, to ply
No more. To make them walk who fain would ride
The ’Busses scorning,――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished,――to stop the ills
Cabmanic flesh is heir to; there’s the rub,
For in such strike of cabs perchance we starve;
Yet who would bear the inflicted wrongs of [33]MAYNE,
Sixpenny fares, and lamps compulsory,
Woes of backed licenses, police court fines,
The beak’s severity, and the many spurns
That patient cabmen from their riders take
Without a murmur: when each man can strike,
And leave town cabless; each railway station
Without a vehicle of any sort
To greet the luggage-laden traveller,
Until our native hue of resolution
Shall sickly o’er with the pale cast of thought
The members anxious to get home at night,
And force them to repeal the hateful Act.

_Judy_, December 11, 1867.

――――:o:――――

THE SOLILOQUY OF A WOULD-BE BLOOMER.

Trousers, or no trousers――that is the question;
Whether ’tis better on the legs to suffer
The dirt and scrapings of bespatter’d crossings,
Or to take arms against this present Fashion,
And with new dresses, change it? To fix――to change――
No more; and by this change to say we stop
Mud splashings, and the thousand natural woes
The legs are heir to.――’tis an emendation
Devoutly to be wished. To fix――to change――
To change! perchance the gown;――ay, there’s the rub;
For in that change of dress what jeers may come
When we have shuffled off this flounced coil,――
Must we then pause? Where’s the respect
That makes the petticoats for so long rife?
For who would bear the great constraint of gowns,
The dresses long, the small feet hid thereby,
The pangs of tight-laced stays, the waist’s display,
The dirtiness of stockings, and the turns
The patient follower of fashion takes,
When she herself might her own comfort make
With pairs of trousers? Who would flounces wear
To brush and sweep the mud,――a weary wife,――
But that the dread of some one’s sneering breath,――
That unforgiven sarcasm from whose spurn
The maiden e’er recoils,――puzzles the will;
And makes us rather wear the dress we have
Than change for others that we know not of?
Thus custom does make cowards of us all;
And thus the very name of resolution
Is passed o’er by the frail cant of the law,
And novel dresses of great use and beauty
Meet no regard: the trousers they despise,
And spurn the name of BLOOMER!

_The Month_, by ALBERT SMITH and JOHN LEECH, November, 1851.

――――:o:――――

HAMLET ON VACCINATION.

To vaccinate or not, that is the question,
Whether ’tis better for a man to suffer
The painful pangs and lasting marks of smallpox
Or to bare arms before the surgeon’s lancet,
And, by being vaccinated, end them. Yes,
To feel the tiny point, and say we end
The chance of many a thousand awful scars
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.――Ah! soft you now,
The Vaccinator! Sir, upon thy rounds
Be my poor arms remembered!

_Punch_, May 28, 1881.

――――:o:――――

CLEAN LINEN!
_Or, The Housewife’s Soliloquy._

To wash, or not wash?――that is the question!
Whether ’tis nobler on th’ whole person to suffer
The grime and lankness of the long-worn garment,
Or to take soap against a siege of stain-spots,
And by stout scrubbing, end them. To wash――to scrub
No more; and by that toil to say, we end
The mud-splash, and the thousand various soils
Which linen catches――’tis a consummation
With both fists to be strove for! To wash, to dry,
To dry, perchance in frost――ay there’s the rub!
For in that chance of frost what coals must burn,
When we have soused, and wet a whole month’s cloaths,
Must make us pause!――There’s the respect
That makes a muslin gown be worn so long:――
For who would bear the dingy-looking tail,
The crumpled ruff, the chair-press’d, crease-mark’d shawl;
Dance-dusted turban, or, trod Turkish robe;
The oft’ turned petticoat, kerchief and hose
Which tho’ well-coak’d within the shoe――will peep;
When she herself might mend appearances
By a soap-lather:――Who’d white bonnets wear
That took the goblin of a foul-cloathes bag?
But that the dread of price per chaldron charg’d,
(That bill by coal man drawn, from whose sum total
Abatement ne’er was made) puzzles the choice,
And makes us rather bear be-grim’d nankeens
Than fly too rashly to the measur’d purse!
――――Thus saving does make slovens of us all,
And thus the native hue of milk-white Irish
Is sicklied o’er by three days perspiration,
And smug-tied neckcloths of great length and wideness
In this regard are turned all ways awry,
And lose the name of cravat!

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

――――:o:――――

SOME PARODIES ON THE MARRIAGE QUESTION.

THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY.
_In Imitation of a celebrated Speech._

To wed, or not to wed――That is the question:
Whether ’tis happier in the mind to stifle
The heats and tumults of outrageous passion,
Or with some prudent fair in solemn contract
Of matrimony join――to have――to hold――
No more――and by that have to say we end
The heartache, and a thousand love-sick pangs
Of celibacy――’twere a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d――in nuptial band
To join till death dissolves.――Ay, there’s the rub;
For in that space what dull remorse may come,
When we have ta’en our solemn leave of liberty,
Must give us pause――There’s the respect
That slacks our speed in suing for a change.
Else――who would bear the scorns and sneers which bachelors
When aged feel, the pains and flatt’ring fevers
Which each new face must give to roving fancy,
When he might rid himself at once of all
By a bare Yes. Who would with patience bear
To fret and linger out a single life,
But that the dread of something yet untry’d,
Some hazard in a state from whose strict bond
Death only can release, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather chuse those ills we have,
Than fly to others which we fancy greater?
This last reflection makes us slow and wary,
Filling the dubious mind with dreadful thoughts
Of curtain lectures, jealousies, and cares
Extravagantly great, entail’d on wedlock,
Which to avoid the lover checks his passion,
And, miserable, dies a _bachelor_.

T. C――――BRE.
The New Lady’s Magazine_, March, 1786.

――――――――

To woo, or not to woo――that is the question:
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer
The screws and pinches of a straiten’d fortune,
Or to take arms against some rich widow’s suitors,
And, by opposing, beat them. To woo――to wed:
No more:――and by a wedding to say we silence
The creditor, and thousand barking pests
That snap at poor men,――though the consummation
Were little to be wished. To woo;――to wed:――
To wed――perchance be henpeck’d!――There’s the rub!
For in that unison what jars may come
When we have shuffled on the fatal yoke,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes our celibacy last so long;
For who would bear the plagues of poverty,
The fair’s neglect, the coxcomb’s contumely,
The dearth of dinner, and the mournful waste
That active Time in galligaskins wears,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a gold ring? Who’d live a subaltern,
To drill and dress under a martinet?
But that the dread of something after marriage,
That knot indissoluble, from whose noose
No sufferer can be freed, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear our own mishaps,
Than fly to others that a wife would bring!
For women do make noodles of us all;
And thus, the bare design of a flirtation
Is strangled by the terror of a match,
And many a pleasant and free hearted youth,
With this regard his courtship turns awry,
And shuns the name of husband.

From “_Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces_, composed by several of our MOST CELEBRATED POETS, but _not_ published in any former edition of their works.” London, John Miller, 1814.

――――――――

To wed, or not to wed? That is the question.
Whether it is advisable to bear
The dull privations of a single life,
Or marry, and in wedlock seek relief
From many woes? To desperately woo
Some charming woman decked with seraph lips
And eyes that speak an ocean-stream of love?
To marry her? It is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished; but where’s the chance?
To wed――to set up an establishment
And have “a lot of bairns?” Ay, there’s the rub;
For it may be I shall not have the means
To do my duty to them all, and leave
My mortal reckoning; bequeathing merit.
Hence reasoning makes me pause, and show respect
That dates celibacy a lengthy term;
For how could I, chief party to a deed
In what is promised, faithfully and true,
A constant, generous, and a manly aid,
Fulfil my trust, unless I could afford it?
I’d like to wed, for who would single be,
Or snore in solitude the livelong night,
But that the fear of curtain lectures, and
A yearly levy of “incumbrances”
(As heathen, churlish men their offspring call),
Perplexes me, and makes me rather bear
The ills I have than fly to those unknown.

ANONYMOUS.
From W. A. Clouston’s _Literary Curiosities and Eccentricities_.

――――――――

Marry, or not to marry? that is the question――
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The sullen silence of these cob-webbed rooms
Or seek in festive halls some cheerful dame,
And, by uniting, end it?――to live alone
No more: and by marrying say we end
The heartache, and the thousand make-shifts
Bach’lors are heirs to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To marry to live
In peace! Perchance in war; ay, there’s the rub;
For in the marriage state what ills may come,
When we have shuffled off our liberty,
Must give us pause――there’s the respect,
That makes us dread the bonds of wedlock,
For who could bear the noise of scolding wives,
The fits of spleen, th’ extravagance of dress,
The thirst for plays, for concerts and for balls,
The insolence of the servants, and the spurns
That patient husbands from their consorts take
When he himself might his quietus gain
By living single. Who would wish to hear
The jeering name of bachelor,
But that the dread of something after marriage
(Ah, that vast expenditure of income,
The tongue call scarcely tell) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather choose the single life,
Then go to jail for debts we know not of――
Economy thus makes bachelors of us still;
And thus our melancholy resolution
Is still increased upon more serious thought.

From Geo. Wentworth’s _Poetical Note Book_, London, 1824.

――――――――

To wed, or not to wed――that is the question――
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to banish
The tempting visions of domestic comfort,
Or to lead some damsel of our times to the altar,
And, by marriage, end them? To wed, to doubt
No more, and by that act to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand well-planned tricks
Of enterprising mothers! ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To wed――to enrich
The tradesmen, and to feed bad servants!
To wed, perchance, a spend thrift! ay, there’s the rub;
For to what sort of wife we may be mated
When we have shuffled off our bachelorhood,
Must give us pause.――――There’s the respect
That makes celibacy of so much practice;
For who would bear the impatient thirst for bliss,
The yearnings for some gentle confidant
The amatory frenzies of one’s loneliness,
The loss of buttons, and of large joints of meat,
When he himself, might his quietus make
With a bare Wedding ring? Who would lodgings bear,
To groan and sweat under extortionate landladies,
But that the dread of helpless and expensive wives――
Those prodigies of modern training――puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than hazard being thus ta’en in and done for.
Thus women do make cowards of us all:
And thus the hopeful heart of many a bachelor,
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprisers of good will and spirit,
With this regard from marriage turn away,
And lose the name of Husband.

_Echoes from the Clubs_, April 8, 1868.

――――――――

THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITIONS.

On September 26, 1880, the following Prize Parody appeared in the _Weekly Dispatch_:――

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis better in this life to suffer
The petty trials of unmarried life
Or add one more unto a list of troubles,
And thus by marriage end them? To wed, to sleep
No more; or, if to sleep, to say we end
The yearnings and the sentimental fudge
Young flesh is heir to――’tis a consummation
Too blessed to be true. To love, to wed――
What then? Perchance repent; ay, there’s the rub.
For in the meekest maid what changes come
When we have wriggled on the golden coil,
Must give us pause. There’s reason good
That makes so many choose a single life――
For who could bear to give up his quiet pipe,
The close society of bosom friends,
The interchange of bright congenial thoughts,
Which sparkle like the glasses on the board,
For squalling children and a shrewish wife,
While he can cook a herring, or a steak,
And ply a bodkin. None would ever dare
To grunt and growl at lovely maidenhood!
But there’s a something after marriage vows――
The trap where foxes lose their tails, and then
Advise their fellows that its much the best――
Which makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than marry troops of others with a wife――
For woman breeched makes cowards of us all.
And, somehow, all our boasted resolution
Gets sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear;
And enterprises, which we might have held
In great regard, must then be put aside,
Because, forsooth, “I’m married!”

WILLIAM H. EDMUNDS.

――――――――

OPHELIA (_aside_)
Perhaps he will! Perhaps he won’t! Who knows?
(_pensively_) How hard it is to make the men propose!

(_Sighs and sits down away from Hamlet._)

HAMLET――
To pop, or not to pop the fatal question.
Can any husband give me a suggestion?
Whether ’tis nobler to endure the woes
Of stockings holey at the heels and toes,
Of lonely evenings, solitary mutton,
And ragged shirt-fronts innocent of button,
Or to take arms against the ills of life,
Swallow the necessary pill――a wife,
Give up tobacco, latch-keys and late hours,
And take an interest in cows and flowers,
Adopt a country life, and, if you can,
Become a nice domestic married man.
The prospect’s tempting. Shall I? Yes, here goes.
Ophelia, I’ve determined to propose.

From _Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks_; by the Author of “The Light Green.” W. METCALFE & SON, Trinity Street, Cambridge, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE BARD’S SOLILOQUY

To write――or not to write――that is the question――
Whether ’twere nobler in the mind to stifle
The hungry cravings of an empty stomach,
To sleep on bed of straw, in garret high,
As is Parnass, or in the dark abyss
Of cellar, low as Tartarus――To be
The game of sporting critics――Or to die――
To sink in vile obscurity, and rot
Among the senseless rabble――Aye! to drop
Unknown, and unlamented!――Hateful thought!
Detestable oblivion!
To write――to live!――――immortal as great Jove!
To be a second Shakespeare, and inroll’d
Among the list of Poets, and perchance
Some monarch’s fav’rite, counsellor, and friend,
In more retired hours――Or the fond theme
Of after ages――Soul inspiring thought!
Ambition!――Witchcraft!――Sorcery divine!
To write――perchance to cringe――aye, there’s the rub!
For who could brook to do an action mean,
Unworthy man, and basely stoop to praise
Some letter’d bookworm, or pedantic fool;
To sell his muse for hire, and thus belie
The dictates of his conscience――Be a sycophant,
And flatter titled scoundrels?――There’s the respect――
Must give us pause, and make the bard forbear:
_This_ infant genius checks, but that the hope
Of living after death in mem’ry’s praise
Hurries him on――As erst the hot-brain’d,
Yclep’d Phaeton, who, of old, they say,
Deaf to advice, by hot ambition fir’d,
Mounted the flaming chariot of his sire
With fatal eagerness――So he, nor mov’d
By kind intreaties, nor the sage advice
Of prudent friends regarding; but spurr’d on
By evil genius, baneful love of fame,
The dangerous height of Helicon assails:
Or with mad fury mounts the nettled steed
Call’d Pegasus――Anon, with giddy brain,
And aspect woful, the tremendous depth
Of space immensurable while he views,
His tott’ring limbs their wonted duty fail;
Or while, disdainful of his rider’s strength,
The snorting courser cuts the distanc’d winds
With wing’d velocity――――Too late, alas!
His rashness he repents, and headlong hurl’d
Through ether’s all-unfathomable void――
(Dreadful to think)――he falls――to rise no more!

H. R. E.
_Chancery-Lane. The New Lady’s Magazine_, November, 1786.

DAME TILLER discovered washing; she takes out of her tub a veil, and
a pair of small socks, which she hangs on the line, sighs, and
regards them sorrowfully._

DAME. Tubby or not tubby――there’s the rub,
Whether I shall get anything to scrub,
Or, overcome by all my numerous troubles,
Dive headlong down into that sea of bubbles;
As to my bus’ness it is something shockin’,
Of stockings I’ve got but that small _stock in_.
People won’t send their things, complaining (bosh)
That, like King John, they’d lost them in the _Wash_.
I used to do for schools, and so it follers
I used to have a lot of _scholars’ collars_;
Now I have none, no collars smooth, nor ruffs,
I’ve got to make the best of fortune’s cuffs.
To emigrate the best thing now would be――
Yes! _Washington_ would be the place for me.

From “_Poll and Partner Joe_”; a Nautical Burlesque by F. C. Burnand. First produced at St. James’s Theatre, May 6th, 1871.

――――:o:――――

THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY.

To wed, or not to wed? That is the question
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pangs and arrows of outrageous love
Or to take arms against the powerful flame
And by opposing quench it.
To wed――to marry――
And by a marriage say we end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to――’tis a consummation.
Devoutly to be wished! to wed――to marry
Perchance a scold! aye, there’s the rub
For in that wedded life what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our single state
Must give us serious pause. There’s the respect
That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.
For who would bear the dull unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased
When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? O who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire
Till celibacy becomes a weary life
But that the dread of something after wedlock
(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains
No captive can get free) puzzles the will
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than fly to others which a wife may bring.
Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all
And thus our natural taste for matrimony
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought
And love adventures of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of Wedlock.

[Copied from an Album――Author unknown.]

――――:o:――――

CREMATION.
(_By a Burning admirer of Sir Henry Thompson._)

To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler for our frames to suffer
The shows and follies of outrageous custom,
Or to take fire――against a sea of zealots――
And by consuming end them? To Urn――to keep――
No more: and while we keep, to say we end
Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills
That flesh is heir to――’tis a consume-ation
Devoutly to be wished! To burn――to keep――
To keep! Perchance to lose――aye, there’s the rub:
For in the course of things what duns may come,
Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes inter-i-ment of so long use.
For who would have the pall and plumes of hire,
The tradesman’s prize――a proud man’s obsequies,
The chaffering for graves, the legal fee,
The cemetery beadle and the rest,
When he himself might his few ashes make
With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear,
And lie beneath a lying epitaph,
But that the dread of simmering after death――
That uncongenial furnace from whose burn
No incremate returns――weakens the will,
And makes us rather bear the graves we have
Than fly to ovens that we know not of?
This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all.
And thus the wisdom of incineration
Is thick-laid o’er with the pale ghost of nought,
And incremators of great pith and courage
With this regard their faces turn awry,
And shudder at cremation.

WILLIAM SAWYER.

In April, 1884, there was a discussion in the House of Commons on a Bill, brought in by Dr. Cameron, for regulating Cremation.

――――:o:――――

There are numbers of other Parodies of this Soliloquy scattered about. William Hone, when on his trial for publishing a Parody entitled “The Political Litany,” mentioned one which had appeared in the _Morning Herald_ in 1808, commencing thus:――

“To stand, or not to stand――that is the question
Whether ’tis nobler for us to lose th’ Election,
And all the honours that attend upon it,
Or to demand a poll, and risk th’ expense.”

Unfortunately the file of the above named journal in the British Museum Library is incomplete, so that the remainder of the parody cannot here be given.

One of the best burlesques of Shakespeare ever written was the “Hamlet Travestie, in three Acts, with annotations after the manner of Dr. Johnson and George Steevens, Esq., and other Commentators,” 1810. This was written by John Poole, the author of Paul Pry; the notes at the end are amusing burlesques of the word-splitting, and quibbling over trifles, to be found in the writings of many authors who have done their best to obscure some of the clearest, and noblest utterances of Shakespeare.

In this burlesque first appeared the well-known lines, (spoken by Ophelia in the Mad Scene,)