Chapter XXX: Prologue (1)

SCENE――_representing various illustrations of the life of
Shakespeare_.

_Enter the GHOST of SHAKESPEARE, followed by the POPULAR COMEDIAN. The GHOST paces round the stage._

_P. Com._ Whither wilt thou lead me?
Speak――I’ll go no farther.

_Ghost._ Mark me!

_P. Com._ I will.

_Ghost._ I am old Shakespeare’s spirit,
Doomed for a certain term to walk the earth;
And on the stage draw tolerable houses,――
Till by the _taste_ of a _discerning_ age,
For monster drums and Ethiopian bards
Driven to make a way; but that I am forbid
To charm the public is not what has caused
My troubled spirit to revisit earth:
I can a tale unfold of recent wrongs,
Whose lightest word would harrow up a soul
Of gutta-percha toughness――freeze thy blood――
Make thy two eyes like cabs start from their stands――
And each particular orb to roll and stretch
Like pictures of the fretful hippopotamus
At the Zoological! List! List! oh, list!
If e’er thou did’st old Stratford William love――

_P. Com._ Good gracious!

_Ghost._ Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

_P. Com._ Murder?

_Ghost._ Murder most foul I’ve been accustomed to――
And in the ordinary way don’t mind it――
But this most foul, strange and unnatural――

_P. Com._ Haste me to know it, that I,
With wings as swift as carrier pigeon on the Derby Day,
May sweep to my revenge.

_Ghost._ I find thee apt;――
And duller shouldst thou be than the dead cats
That rot in countless shoals on Thames’s banks,
Did’st thou not stir in this?――You’ve seen my “TEMPEST?”

_P. Com._ Some time ago.

_Ghost._ Ah――well――’twas given out that――(pardon me,
A ghost must have his feelings)――rumour reached me,
That the whole ear of London
Was by a forged process of my “TEMPEST”
Rankly abus’d――and know, thou noble youth――
With serpents and trombones disguised, my piece
Now scares the town.

_P. Com._ O, my prophetic soul! the opera!

_Ghost._ Aye, that most queer and het’rogeneous dish,――
With witchcraft and old fairy tales dress’d up,――
(Singular taste! that could on Shakespeare graft
Old “Mother Bunch”) bringing to “Tom Thumb’s” level
The plot of my most seeming perfect play.
Oh, gracious! what a dreadful sight was there
For me, or any other anxious parent!
My tricksy _Ariel_ in a ballet skirt――
The fairy of a Christmas pantomime!
My _Caliban_――a melodrama villain――
Bearing _Miranda_ off――(stol’n incident
From _Grindoff_ in the “Miller and his Men!”)
And then resorting to an ancient scheme
From “Harlequin and the Three Wishes” borrowed
Oh horrible! oh horrible!――most horrible!――
If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not――
Do something, please――I’m not particular what――
But soft――an odour wafts along the wall――
Methinks I scent an early breakfast stall.
I must get home――I’m not allowed a key――
Adieu! adieu! adieu! remember me?
[_Exit._

_P. Com._ Remember thee! Aye, thou poor Ghost! e’en while
Memory holds seat ’neath this distracted tile,
I will avenge thee for this outrage vile,
But how? Stop! yes――“THE ENCHANTED ISLE.”
Beat them on their own ground, the play’s the thing.
We’ll out-burlesque them!――Ho! there! Prompter, ring!

From this it will be seen that something in the nature of an apology was deemed necessary for this burlesque on “_The Tempest_,” and more recently when Mr. Burnand produced his “_Ariel_,” there was an angry discussion in the press, in which many maintained that it was not in good taste, nor was it advisable for the credit of our stage, that this beautiful play (supposed to have been the last written by Shakespeare), should be thus irreverently treated. On page 144 of “Parodies” will be found extracts from this correspondence. “_Ariel_” was produced at the Gaiety Theatre, in October, 1883, and though a very harmless burlesque in itself, and in far better taste than the Broughs, “_Enchanted Isle_,” it was received with many signs of disapprobation, and had but a short run. There was nothing very original, nor very comical, in the conception of Prospero as a magician, entirely dependent upon his conjuring apparatus without which he was absolutely powerless, whilst as to the plot, it was that of the “_Tempest_” with modern variations cut to a comic pattern, and represented by a clever company, among whom were Miss Phyllis Broughton as Ferdinand, Miss Farren as Ariel, Miss Harcourt as the Captain, Mr. Wyatt as Sebastian, and Mr. Elton as Caliban. The burlesque teemed with popular allusions, and the Fisheries Exhibition, naturally, was not in high favour; there were some lively songs, and, of course, plenty of dances for Miss E. Farren, and Miss Connie Gilchrist.

――――:o:――――

_ARIEL sings_――
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry,
On the bats back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Parody sung by J. P. Harley in Planché’s _Sleeping Beauty_, Covent Garden, April 20, 1840.

Who would be Great Grand Lord High?
All the blame on him must lie;
Everywhere for him they cry
Up and down stairs he must fly――
After all folks verily!――
Verily! Verily!――Few could live now
Under the honours beneath which I bow!

――――:o:――――

_Prospero_
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.

It is possible that this passage was suggested to Shakespeare by some lines in Lord Stirling’s _Tragedie of Darius_, 1604:――

Those golden pallaces, those gorgeous halles,
With fourniture superfluouslie faire;
Those statelie courts, those sky encountring walles,
Evanish all like vapours in the aire.

END OF THE PARODIES.

Our parodies are ended. These our authors,
As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air.
And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,
The Critic’s puff, the Trade’s advertisement,
The Patron’s promise, and the World’s applause,
Yea, all the hopes of poets,――shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial fable fated,
Leave not a groat behind!

_Posthumous Parodies_, 1814.

A FEW PARODIES OF DETACHED PASSAGES.

“FLIRTING.”
(After _Portia_.)

The quality of flirting is not strained;
It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the favoured ones. It is twice blest:
It blesses her that flirts, and him that’s flirted with.
It profiteth the husband better than
His deeds; and he becomes in truth renowned
The time his wife doth gad about and flirt
With men. It’s mightiest in the ugliest. Oh!
It is the attribute of love itself;
And wives do think themselves most loved when they
Do drive or walk with other man than they
Who are their lawful husbands. But, O wife!
Though loving be thy plea, remember this,
That flirting doth beget unto the pair
A reputation far from enviable.

_Scraps_, July, 1885.

――――:o:――――

Song from J. R. Planche’s extravaganza, “Fortunio” (1843), sung by Miss P. Horton as _Fortunio_:――

Tell me, tell me
Tell me, tell me
New, d’ye fancy bread?
Smoking hot from oven red
Or prefer you stale instead?
Reply, reply, reply.

――――:o:――――

Lines spoken by F. Robson as _Prince Richcraft_ in J. R. Planché’s extravaganza, “The Discreet Princess,” produced at the Olympic Theatre, December 26, 1855:――

Ha! I remember a low sort of shop
Where they sold peppermint and lollipop,
And lozenges in boxes by the score
With the inscription o’er them “cough no more.”
I gazed upon the things red――green――and blue,
And others of a still more sickly hue;
And thought if one for poison had a whim
There lived a seedy chap would sell it him,
And prove the truth that brief inscription bore
For in his coffin he would “cough no more!”

――――:o:――――

DREARY SONG FOR DREARY SUMMER.

MR. PUNCH SINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENT OF A PIPE AND TOBACCO.

Well, don’t cry, my little tiny boy,
_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
Amuse yourself, and break some toy,
_For the rain it raineth every day_.

Alas, for the grass on papa’s estate,
_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
He’ll have to buy hay at an awful rate,
_For the rain it raineth every day_.

Mamma, she can’t go out for a drive,
_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
How cross she gets about four or five,
_For the rain it raineth every day_.

If I were you I’d be off to bed,
_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,
_For the rain it raineth every day_.

A great while ago this song was done,
_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,
And I, for one, cannot see it’s fun,
_But the Dyces[42] and the Colliers[42] can――they say_.
SHIRLEY BROOKS.
1860.

――――:o:――――

_Shakespoke’s Epigram._

Young friend, for Cyclus’s sake forbear
To bite the dust that’s ever near.
Blest is the man avoids the stones,
And curst is he that breaks his bones.

_Lyra Bicyclica_, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Boston. E. C. Hodges and Co. 1885.)

The same volume contains several imitations of Shakespeare’s sonnets in praise of the pleasures of bicycle riding.

――――:o:――――

“The First Sitting of the Committee on the Proposed Monument to Shakspeare, carefully taken in shorthand by ZACHARY CRAFT, amanuensis to the Chairman.”

“_Come in shadows――so depart._”――MACBETH.

Cheltenham. Printed for G. A. Williams, 1823. This little volume of 88 pages contains the supposed remarks of the following individuals:――The Chairman, a member of the Committee, and the _shades_ of Aristotle, Longinus, Æschylus, Euripides, Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence, Lope de Vega Del Carpio, Molière, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Thomson, Voltaire, Diderot, D’Alembert, La Harpe, Gray, Garrick, Mademoiselle Claison, Warburton, Johnson, Malone, Steevens, Susanna Shakespeare, John-a-Combe, Alfieri, R. B. Sheridan, Porson, and a number of other less distinguished persons. Very few of the remarks are either witty or clever, nor have they many of the characteristics of the personages to whom they are ascribed.

――――:o:――――

_Coriolanus Travestie_, by J. Morgan, was produced in Liverpool in 1846, and a burlesque of King Lear, entitled, _King Queer and his Daughters Three_, was played at the Strand Theatre, London, in 1855. It will therefore be seen that travesties have been written upon nearly every one of William Shakespeare’s Tragedies, and that not even his comedies, or historical plays, have quite escaped burlesque. The enumeration here given is probably incomplete, as many burlesques which have been produced in provincial towns, and some which have been played in London, enjoyed too short a run to obtain the advantage of being printed.

Before closing this chapter on the burlesques of Shakespeare, the following remarks on the subject which appeared in _The Daily News_, of October 25, 1884, may be quoted:――

Few more striking proofs could be given of the great and
growing popularity of the theatre than the most recent
fluctuations of stage humour. The experience of the present
thus far confirms the judgment formed during the two
preceding seasons, that the comic element in stage
representation has undergone an important mutation both in
motive and in method. Fun is aimed at, and probably
achieved, as frequently as of yore; but the kind of fun and
the means employed to produce it are entirely different, and
possible only under the new conditions of the theatre. Only
a few years ago, when London had comparatively few theatres,
and supported, after a fashion, two opera-houses, the
theatrical world filled a ludicrously small space in English
life.

Only when the public are so keenly interested in the
dramatic world as they are at present could success attend
the profuse introduction of personal parody or caricature
into the lightest of stage plays. It would be poor fun to
present an elaborate caricature of a serious actor to a
spectator who knew little, and cared less about him, and
probably had not seen him in the part more especially
selected for ridicule. Recent burlesque or travesty depends
almost entirely for success upon such caricature, and
assumes perfect knowledge of all the mannerisms of prominent
actors and actresses. The art of inverting a noble story so
that it may appear grotesque occupies quite a secondary
position in the category of effects. It would not, for
instance, be considered funny at this present juncture to
travesty the Venetian Senate into policemen drinking pots of
porter, and Othello himself into a negro, with plantation
songs, dances and accent. Nor would it be thought amusing to
dress Shylock with three hats upon his head, and make him in
the intervals of the Trial Scene try to sell cigars to the
young Venetians present in court. Yet this is precisely what
Frank Talfourd, the great master of the word torturing
school, and the inventor of the agglutinate system of
punning, did. Henry J. Byron, too, made perhaps his greatest
burlesque hit in _The Lady of Lyons_ by making up Beauseant
as Napoleon III. and Claude Melnotte as Napoleon I. Again,
Talfourd in _The Merchant of Venice Preserved_ wrote
amazingly funny dialogue and songs for Robson, but depended
in no kind of way upon imitations of Charles Kean and
Phelps, which Robson could have done to perfection. What
would now be required in _Othello_ would be a low-comedy
imitation of Signor Salvini with an Iago made up like Mr.
Irving, and a Desdemona who could at least give a general
impression of Miss Ellen Terry. We are not propounding that
the words should be witless and senseless, all that we
maintain is that the caricaturists would in theatrical
parlance “get all the laughs.” An instance in point is that
the song of the hermit in _Paw Clawdian_ neatly written by
Mr. Burnand, and capitally sung by Mr. E. D. Ward, although
received with hearty merriment, by no means threw the
audience into the convulsions provoked by Mr. Toole’s
appearance as Mr. Wilson Barrett. It is not the perversion
of motive and character, not the curious piling of pun upon
pun, which makes the success of modern travesty. What is
looked for is a clever presentment of the surface
peculiarities of the serious artist, such as those of the
Misses Linden in _Silver Guilt_, _Stage Dora_, and _Paw
Clawdian_, in which by turns Miss Eastlake, Madame Sarah
Bernhardt, and Mrs. Bernard Beere were parodied with
exceeding cleverness. It is only a few nights since Miss
Farren “brought down the house” by her brilliant caricature
of Mr. Kyrle Bellew, as Gilbert Vaughan in _Called Back_.

The amusement to be obtained from putting counterfeit
presentments of statesmen, lawyers, and soldiers upon the
stage has been forbidden in theatres properly so-called, and
is only endured in music-halls in a modified shape. Plenty
of fun in the worst possible taste could be produced by this
ancient expedient, but as public opinion and police reasons
forbid it, recourse is had to the device of hoisting the
histrion with his own petard. All the clever devices of his
own art, all his mysteries of “make-up,” and his talent for
characterization, are devoted to the object, not of
parodying either Shakespeare or Sardou, but the aspect of
their creations embodied by the foremost artists at present
on the stage.

Isaac Watts, D.D.,

_Born at Southampton in_ 1674. _Died November_ 25, 1748.

――――――――

AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF.

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.

How skillfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax,
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past;
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
DR. WATTS.

――――――――

THE FLEA.

The flea, so called because it always “flees” the foe, is an industrious insect, and has been immortalized by Dr. What’s-his-name in those beautiful lines commencing:

How doth the busy little flea
Improve each starry night,
And gather food from you and me
With all his little might.
How skilfully it hops away,
When it we try to squeeze;
And waits until the close of day
Its hunger to appease.

The flea may be said to come under the denomination of “game,” being eagerly hunted by various animals, and especially by woman. To see a woman flea-hunting is a never-to-be-forgotten sight. What ardour glistens in her eyes! what determination is shown in her mouth! It is probably the only time in a woman’s life when she doesn’t know, or doesn’t care, whether her back-hair is up or down; and if she _does_ catch the flea, the pride of the successful fox-hunter is small in comparison with hers.

The flea’s favourite song is “Put me in _your_ little bed.”

――――――――

HYMNS FOR CHILDREN.

How doth the ever busy wasp
Improve the shining hour;
His object ever is to grasp
The sweets of fruit and flower.

To dip his beak into the peach,
To pierce the ripen’d plum;
To suck whatever is in reach,
To sting whoe’er may come.

So, children, you should ne’er forget
This insect’s happy toil;
Before you his example set,
And what you can’t eat, spoil.

_Punch_, September 25, 1852.

――――――――

THE NORTHERN BEE.

How doth the busy Russian _Bee_
Improve the darkened hour,
And kindly hope it will _not_ see
The fall of England’s power.

How skillfully it frames the “sell,”
Forgives Crimean whacks,
And owns JOHN BULL does pretty well
Whate’er he undertakes.

So now, let Russia, with a will,
The works of peace pursue;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For soldier-States to do.

In laying down the Iron Way,
Be her next century passed,
And then, who knows, the world may say――
“She’s civilised at last.”

_Punch_, October 10, 1857.

――――――――

CONVIVIAL SONG.

_To be sung Sloughly, and with expression._

How doth the dizzy DISRAELI
Improve the dining hour,
And draw the long bow fearlessly
To show his elbows power.

How neatly he prepares the sell,
How deftly cooks the facts!
And for what others have done well,
Himself the credit takes.

What perils with what art and skill
He’s pulled the country through!
What wonders will his India Bill,
If we believe him, do!

So with the farmers he makes hay
Ere yet his Sun be past;
For though e’en Dizzies have their day,
Not long that day can last.

_Punch_, June 19, 1858.

――――――――

[This appeared shortly after Mr. Disraeli had been addressing the electors of Slough.]

ON A BEE I’VE BEE(N) TO.

How doth the lively Spelling Bee
Delight the evening hour,
And bother folks of each degree――
Sweet maids and spinsters sour.

Hard names that few have ever heard
Are bandied round pell-mell;
And NUTTALL finds some crack-jaw words
That _not all_ folks can spell.

With BUTTER, MAVOR, VYSE, each day,
Let my spare time be pass’d;
So at the Spelling Bee I may
Win some nice prize at last.

_Judy_, March 15, 1876.

[Published when the mania for Spelling Bees was at its height.]

――――――――

CHAP. I.――ON INDUSTRY.

With what singular persistency of purpose does that diminutive and laborious creature, the Bee, turn to account every minute of sunshine! The construction of her cell is a marvel of insect architecture; and if you were to attempt to spread wax with the same neatness and regularity, you would no doubt fail in the most ignominious manner. At least, I know _I_ should; for I was only the other day sealing a letter when I burned my fingers dreadfully. I am aware that bee’s-wax is not sealing-wax; but still if I had used bee’s-wax to fasten my envelope, I daresay I should have made just as bad a mess of it, or worse. Then again, look how the Bee labours to store those octagonal chambers with the saccharine food she is all the day gathering from roses, tulips, candytuft, pelargoniums, pansies, pinks, hollyhocks, fuchsias, heliotropes, marigolds, dahlias, begonias, lupines, lilies, daffydowndillies, and, in short, every opening flower. I can’t help thinking that if the whole of one’s time was passed in books or work, or even healthy athletic pastimes, such, for example, as hop-scotch, dominoes, tossing the caber, knurr and spell, coddams, cricket, rounders, peg-top, prisoner’s-base, noughts-and-crosses, Aunt Sally, cribbage, nine-pins, Indian clubs, fly-the-garter, boxing, balancing tobacco-pipes on the tip of one’s nose, skimming half-pence at cats or attic windows, turning Catharine wheels in the road, or putting the stone, we might haply give as good an account of every day as our little friend the Bee could do, if so required. (Since the foregoing was committed to manuscript, I have met with some similar ideas in verse, by a Dr. What’s-his-name. I do not, however, think it necessary or desirable to cancel my own original reflections on a subject which, after all, is quite open to anybody.)

_Punch._

――――――――

DR. WATTS ON ASTHMA.
(_Vide Advertisement._)

How doth the little busy wheeze
Augment from hour to hour,
And gather “stuffiness” all day,
With forty “bad-cold” power!

How skilfully it clogs each cell,
How strongly it attacks!
And labours hard both cad and swell
To lay upon their backs.

It calls for all the doctor’s skill――
Apothecary’s too too――
And Satan finds decoctions still
For ’prentice hands to brew.

_Funny Folks_, July 21, 1877.

――――――――

A SIMPLE RHYME FOR THE 5TH DECEMBER.

How doth the busy Parliament
Improve each shining hour,
By talking, talking, night and day,
With twenty-magpie power.

How doth the savage Gladstone rise,
Ambition to pursue,
And rave of Russia, India, and
Of Afghanistan too.

How doth the angry Radical
Delight to bark and shriek;
How oft he tries a lion’s roar,
And only makes a squeak.

How doth the loyal Englishman
All snarling curs deride,
And in the present Government
Implicitly confide.

_Judy_, Jan. 4, 1879.

――――――――

WATTS’ HUMOUROUS POEMS.

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How, cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!

_Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, by Lewis Carroll, (London Macmillan and Co.)

――――――――

THE LITTLE MOSQUITO.

How doth the little Mosquito
Delight to buzz and bite,
And make the terrors of the day
Ten times as bad at night.

How buzzily (busily) it flits on wing,
And ’lighting on your nose,
It makes you feel its quick, sharp sting
When you’re trying for to doze.

How skilfully it dodges round;
And when you try to “bust” it,
Flies away and likes to see
And hear how you have cuss’d it.

But thank the Lord the time will come
When they’ll have no work to do,
And you will find they’re “busted some,”
And Mosquitoes will be few.

So go your way and rest content,
That they away have “flew,”
But mind that by this time next year
They’ll find some work to do.
TOBY.
_Icycle_, The Wheel World Annual, 1880.

――――――――

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE.
(_After_ DOCTOR WATTS.)

_By an_ ENTHUSIASTIC LAND-LEAGUER, _specially gifted in teaching the young idea how to_ shoot.

How doth the honest Land-League man
Improve each shining hour,
An’ gather money all the day
Wid all his might an’ power!
How carefully he guards his _sell_,
How neatly showers his _whacks_,
An’ labours hard to please PARNELL,
An’ dodge the law’s attacks!

No works of labour tax our skill,
Yet we’ll be busy too,
The Land-League has some mischief still
Our idle hands can do.
In Boycotting an’ suchlike play,
Let all our days be past.
Begorra! we may have to pay
A long account at last!!

_Judy_, March 9, 1881.

――――――――

THE COAL-HOLE TOP.

How doth the little coal-hole top
Its slipperiness disguise,
And feet on bootless errands send
So often to the skies!

The little schoolgirl steps on it
With an elastic gait;
But ere she can step off again
She sits upon her slate.

The little boy with pail of milk,
Treads on it “just in play.”
He sees some stars. The passers-by
Gaze on the “milky way.”

The belle, with rich embellishment,
Comes up with mincing tread,
Her shoes are made of best French kid;
Her stockings clocked with red.

The big policeman, proud, erect,
With gum shoes on his feet,
Disguises it with confidence,
How quick he’s off his beat!

The granger with his cowhide boots:
“By thunder! Did you see
How spry that little iron thing
Got out from under me.”

No matter what the size of feet,
Nor with what they are shod,
The coal-hole top has never yet
With uprightness been trod.

_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.

――――――――

“DOCTOR WATTS” IMPROVED.
(_From a Sea-side Lodger._)

How doth the little busy Flea,
Disturb each silent hour,
And all night long, most wickedly
Our wearied limbs devour.

How cruelly he breaks our rest,
How wroth he makes us wax,
When, jumping from his hidden nest,
He bites our tender backs.

Now, had it been in works like these
That my first years were past,
I must have come, like little Fleas,
To no good end at last.

For so, the little cruel Flea,
By those who would have slept,
Will――drowned, or burnt, or headless be,
Unpitied and unwept.

_Punch_, October 18, 1884.

――――――――

CHILDREN’S CORNER.

How doth the very Bizzy B.[43]
Improve each shining hour,
Annexing isles in every sea
To cripple England’s power.

How skilfully he plans his schemes,
How well he times each blow,
While in his chair Lord Derby dreams
That all is _comme il faut_!

Possessed of such a dauntless will
Would we’d one Bizzy too,
Or Satan find less mischief still
For Liberals’ hands to do.

_Moonshine_, January 1885.

――――――――

THE BEE.

How doth the gorging greedy Bee,
Destructive little brute,
Hum all day long from tree to tree,
And spoil the choicest fruit!

Behold how deep she scoops a cell,
When peaches she attacks,
In nectarines and pears as well,
How big a hole she makes!

Likewise to eat and drink my fill,
I should be happy too;
For Nature has disposed me still
But little else to do.

In prog and grub, by turns with play,
Might all my life be past,
Till I, perhaps, should come to weigh
Good fourteen score at last.

_Punch_, October 9, 1875.

――――――――

THE WOPS.

How doth the wobbling, wily wops
Improve each shining hour!
Within the peach he slyly stops,
And stings with all his power!

How skilfully he wheels around,
And maidens makes afraid;
He loves to clear the pic-nic ground,
And roll in marmalade!

The whispered charm of lover’s talk
He’ll stop without ado;
The Vicar’s sermon he will balk,
And sting the Vicar too!

On cake or fruit or window pane,
On pie or mutton chops,
He’ll sharply sting and come again――
The wobbling, wily wops!

_Punch_, September 15, 1883.

――――――――

THE VARIATION HUMBUG.

There is perhaps more Humbug talked, printed, and practised in reference to Music than to anything else in the world, except Politics. And of all the musical humbugs extant it occurs to _Mr. Punch_ that the Variation Humbug is the greatest. This party has not even the sense to invent a tune for himself, but takes somebody else’s, and starting therefrom as an acrobat leaps from a spring board, jumps himself into a musical reputation on the strength of the other party’s ideas. _Mr. Punch_ wonders what would be thought of a poet who should try to make himself renown by this kind of thing――taking a well-known poem of a predecessor’s, and doing Variations on it after this fashion:――

BUGGINS’S VARIATIONS OF THE BUSY BEE.

How doth the Little Busy Bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower,
From every opening flower, flower, flower,
That sparkles in a breezy bower,
And gives its sweetness to the shower,
Exhaling scent of gentle power,
That lasts on kerchief many an hour,
And is a lady’s graceful dower,
Endeared alike to cot and tower,
Round which the little Busy Bee
Improves each shining hour,
And gathers honey all the day
From every opening flower,
From every opening flower, flower, flower,
From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads her whacks,
And labours hard to store it well.
With the sweet food she makes,
With the sweet food she makes,
With the sweet food she makes, makes, makes,
When rising just as morning breaks,
The dew-drop from the leaf she shakes,
And oft the sleeping moth she wakes,
And diving through the flower she takes,
The honey with her fairy rakes,
And in her cell the same she cakes,
Or sports across the silver lakes,
Besides her children, for whose sakes,
How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads her wax,
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill,
I would be busy too,
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do,
For idle hands to do,
For idle hands to do, do, do,
Things which thereafter they will rue,
When Justice fiercely doth pursue,
Or conscience raises Cry and Hue,
And evil-doers look quite blue,
When Peelers run with loud halloo,
And Magistrates put on the screw,
And then the wretch exclaims, Boo-hoo,
In works of labour or of skill
I wish I’d busied too,
For Satan’s found much mischief still
For my two hands to do.

There! Would a Poet get much reputation for these Variations, which are much better in their way than most of those built upon tunes. Would the poetical critics come out, as the musical critics do, with “Upon WATTS’S marble foundation BUGGINS has raised a sparkling alabaster palace;” or, “The old-fashioned WATTS has been brought into new honour by the _étincellant_ BUGGINS;” or “We love the old tune, but we have room in our hearts for the fairy-like fountains of birdsong which BUGGINS has bid start from it.” _Mr. Punch_ has an idea that BUGGINS would have no such luck; the moral to be deduced from which fact is, that a Musical Prig is luckier than a Poetical Prig.

_Punch_, February 2, 1861.

――――:o:――――

AGAINST QUARRELLING AND FIGHTING.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so,
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to.

But, children, you should never let
Such angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never made
To tear each other’s eyes.
Dr. WATTS.

――――――――

ADDRESS TO THE QUARRELSOME BOYS OF SWITZERLAND.

Let canine animals delight in mutual barkings, and in reciprocating injuries with their fangs; for it is their natural disposition in this manner to gratify their ferocity.

Let creatures of the ursine and feline tribes employ themselves in growling and contention: since they are so constituted as to take pleasure in these occupations. But you, who, among the great European family may be called children――should never allow your irascible propensities to be thus aroused. Those diminutive organs of prehension which you possess were never constructed for the laceration of one another’s instruments of vision.

_Punch_, December 11, 1847.

――――――――

TO A ROEBUCK[44] AT BAY.

Whigs in their cozy berths agree
And ’tis a sorry sight
When independent men we see
Fall out and fume and fight.

Let BROOM[45] delight to bark and bite
For CAMPBELL riles him so;
Let Irish members bounce and fight,
For ’tis their nature to.

But ROEBUCK, you should never let
Your angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never meant
To tear out GRATTAN’S eyes.

_Punch_, June, 1849.

――――――――

A REMONSTRANCE FROM THE NURSERY.

Let Austria delight to bark and bite,
And snap off Kossuth’s nose;
Let Prussia’s King, against all right,
Tread hard on Freedom’s toes;
But Nicholas should never let
A love of conquest rise;
His gory hands were never made
To tear out the Sultan’s eyes.

_Diogenes_, 1854.

――――――――

RATIONAL REMONSTRANCE.

Let peaceful BRIGHT in speech delight
That charms the Cotton crew:
Let COBDEN rather trade than fight,
For ’tis his business to.

But when our Premier, duped before,
Still trusts to Russian lies,
Such weakness but disgusts JOHN BULL,
And makes his monkey rise.

_Punch_, July 29, 1854.

――――――――

WATT’S THE MATTER.

Let Lords delight to bark and bite,
They’ve nothing else to do;
Let Whigs and Tories growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to.

But Liberals, you should never let
Escape your passions dire,
Your little wits were never meant
To set the Thames on fire.

Kings on their gilded thrones agree,[46]
But ’tis a shocking sight,
When all St. Stephen’s family
Fall out with Lowe and Bright.

Then keep your tempers if you can,
On Tories wreak your hate,
And dance a Radical cancan
O’er prostrate Church and State.

_Will-o’-the-Wisp_, May 22, 1869.

――――――――

Birds in their little nests agree
’Tis true. But what about?
They all agree in trying hard
To turn each other out.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For ’tis their nature to;
Then don’t complain if some fine day
They bark and bite at you.

When shines the sun, and rain is past,
Make hay, get in your crops;
But what the Dickens must one do,
Suppose it never stops?

The early bird, the proverb says,
The early worm devours;
Then lest you’d be that early worm,
Abandon early hours.

Alas for childhood’s early faiths!
Comparing old with new;
I like the latter quite as well,
And think them just as true.
H. M.
_The Tonbridgian_, April, 1873.

――――――――

“In my opinion there’s only one policy worth a ducat!”

“And that, Benjamin,” I ask in my captivating way, is――――?”

“Pointedly expressed in the following lines of the poet:――

“Let Rads delight to bark and bite,
For God has made ’em so;
Let Butts and Biggars growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to;
But Hardy, you must never let
The landed gentry rise
To see the games that I am at
Beneath their nose and eyes.”

BENJAMIN D――――_His Little Dinner_, 1876.

――――――――

WATTS THE MATTER?
(Lord Marcus Beresford.)

Oh, Marcus! you should never let
Your angry passions rise,
Nor at a money-lender get,
And try to black his eyes,
One hundred pounds may not be dear
For joys so simply gay;
Yet still to most it will appear
A tidy sum to pay!

_Yorick_, 1877.

――――――――

GIBES AND “GERMS.”

(_A respectful Remonstrance addressed to_ PROFESSOR TINDALL, _and_ DR. H. C. B.)

Let bigots write with sneers of spite,
And dogmas argue so,
Let priests and parsons, differing, fight,
As ’tis their nature to.

But, Sages, you should never let
Such female passions rise;
Your thinking minds were never made
To bandy taunts unwise.

Let calm through all your questions run,
All your debates be mild;
Keep your discussions, every one
By rancour undefiled.

With patience gentle as a lamb
Your arguments pursue;
Call not each other’s theories “flam,”
But prove the sounder view.

Look up to Truth all ends above;
Seek that and that alone:
Nor squabble, out of mere self love
O’er crochets of your own.

_Punch_, July 7, 1877.

――――――――

A FORTOU――ITOUS EVENT.

_Addressed, with all earnestness, to M. Gambetta._

Let fools and bullies brawl and fight,
For ’tis their nature to;
Let brainless apes in duels delight,
But not such men as you.

No! Statesmen they should never let
Their passions get such sway.
Just think of France’s keen regret,
Had you been shot that day!

Twas true there was small chance of this,
Thanks to the seconds’ care;
But though both pistols scored a miss,
The folly still was there.

* * * * *

Then why conform to such a rule
As that which you obey’d;
The laws that bind the fop and fool
For you were never made.

To France a wise example show
When next you’re asked to fight;
And let these moral cowards know
You dare to do what’s right.

_Truth_, November 28, 1878.

――――――――

ON A LATE FRACAS AT NEWMARKET.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For ’tis their nature to,
Let sculptors in the law courts fight
And raise a great to-do.

But, race-horse trainers, pray don’t let
Your angry passions rise;
Your stable-forks weren’t made, you bet
To gouge each other’s eyes.

If you go in for law you’ll be
Awarded just a farden;
So henceforth, when you disagree,
Beg one another’s pardon.

_Judy_, February 14, 1883.

――――――――

TO A POLICEMAN.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
Or howl the whole night through;
Let roosters hail the morning light
With “cock-a-doodle do:”

Let bawling costers all the day
Make hideous the street;
And organs grind, and niggers play
And bands discordant meet:

But, Bobby, you must never try
To stifle torturing sounds,
Nor murmur placidly “Oh, fie!”
But meekly――go your rounds.

_Funny Folks._

――――――――

WATT’S UP AGAIN.
(_On a Recent Fracas._[47])

Let cads delight with fists to fight,
To them ’tis nothing new,
Which if our Swells consider right,
Why――let ’em do it, too.
When well-bred Englishmen now let
Their angry passions rise,
The fashion has been lately set――
They black each other’s eyes.

HYDE PARK.

NOTICE.――To Noblemen and Gentlemen frequenting the Row, all Rows forbidden, except Rows of Chairs. No Rowing in which punching of heads is included, will be permitted, though Rowing on the Serpentine is allowed, but the Rowers will have to pay for any damage done to the sculls.

No objection to pistols and coffee, but fighting like coal-heavers I will not have in my Park, I swear I won’t, by GEORGE.

_Punch_, August 8, 1885.

THE SLUGGARD.

’Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
“You have wak’d me too soon, I must slumber again.”
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;”
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number:
And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass’d by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle, grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hung on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find
That he took better care for improving his mind;
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me,
This man’s but a picture of what I might be;
But, thanks to my friends, for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.”
DR. WATTS.

――――――――

THE FRENCH SLUGGARD.

’Tis the moan of old LOUIS,[48] I hear him complain;
“I’ve deluded my people to warfare with SPAIN;”
As the priests are at mass, so is _he_ on his throne,
An imbecile monarch, an indolent drone.

A little more craft, and a little more ruling,
Thus his days and his hours have been wasted in fooling
And when he snores up, for his _capon_ and crown,
His lethargy sinks him again on his _down_.

I passed by his _palace_,――I saw the _disguise_,――
His JESUITS caressed him, his ULTRAS were _spies_;
The robes that hung on him were ragged and poor
And his life, like a beggar’s, dependent once _more_.

Said I――“Ye ALLIES!!――’tis a lesson for _you_;
This KING is a picture that soon you will _view_;
And thanks to the nations who freedom have cherish’d,
That knowledge hath conquer’d, and despots have perish’d.”

_The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1823.

――――――――

THE SLUGGARD.

“’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,
“You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.”
And I’m not much surprised, for ’tis surely some _lout_,
Who won’t let the poor fellow have his sleep out.
It’s all very well for some fidgety elf,
Who can’t get a wink of sound sleep for himself,
To call others “sluggards”――as worthy as he――
Because they don’t quite with _his_ theory agree.
They think it high time, if to dress they’re prepared,
When the sun is up first, and the day is well aired,
If the body needs rest, ’tis but reason to sleep,
And thus all its functions in order to keep.
If the birds (little fools!) rise so early, I beg
You’ll remember they usually sleep on one leg:
And its wearisome, doubtless, standing so long,
So they wake up and shake off the cramp with a song.
If _they_ had, as _I_ have, a nice cosy bed,
My impression is _they_ would sleep later instead,
And as for the “worm-catching” proverb, in terms,
It can’t affect me――I’m not partial to worms.

_Funny Folks._

――――――――

’Tis the voice of the lobster; I heard him declare,
“You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.”
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose,
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.

_Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland._ (Macmillan and Co., London.)

――――――――

THE WISE ONE, AND THE FOOLISH.

’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,
“You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again,”
As a door on its hinges, so in his bed he
Turn’d and drowsily muttered, “A Soda and B!”

’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,
“I fancy that last night I drank too much champagne;
But no,” he exclaim’d, as he loll’d at his ease,
“It was not the champagne, ’twas the salmon and peas.”

I look’d once again, as he lay on the bed,
His eyes they were blood shot, his nose it was red,
And I said to myself, as I turn’d from the sight,
“It is clear he was up till a late hour of night.”

Then I said to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me!
That man’s but a picture of what I might be.
But no, I am cautious in all that I eat;
I mix not my liquors, but take each one neat.”

_Judy_, September 23, 1874.

――――――――

THE “SPECIAL.”
(_After “Watts” his name._)

’Twas the voice of the “Special,” they heard him complain,
“Oh, bother the telegram! Copy again?”
His fingers were cramped, and his eyelids were red,
And he yawned, for the “Special” had not been in bed.

He had written “atrocity” scenes without number
On a cannon or drum, or some odd pile of lumber;
Had reeled off adventures, romances, realities――
All a Special considers his own Specialities.

Then he dashed down his pen, took a whiff at a “briar,”
And glanced at his costume all covered with mire;
For the clothes that hung on him were turning to rags,
And Poole would have fainted to witness such “bags.”

But he screwed up his courage, still hoping to find
New horrors for British consumption designed;
And he wrote of his dreams, of his eating and drinking
(Too much of the latter some readers are thinking).

But they scan with delight that escape from a shell,
That leap from a mountain, that fall in a well;
And when brought as a spy to some captain or colonel,
’Twas an excellent scene to write up for his journal.

But I said as I read, “Here’s a lesson for me;
This man’s, but a picture of what I might be.
Were it not for the care of my friends in my breeding,
I might have to make ‘Specials’ for newspaper reading.”

_Funny Folks._

――――――――

THE CZAR HE LEADS A JOLLY LIFE.

’Tis the voice of the Czar, don’t you hear him complain?
“They’ve been trying to blow up my palace again!
Now matters are really getting too bad;
For years not a moment of peace have I had.”

This is the first verse of a long and curiously prophetic poem which appeared in _Truth_, December 18, 1879. The remaining verses are not given as they do not parody Dr. Watts.

――――――――

THE RINKER.

’Tis the voice of the rinker, I heard her complain,
You have stopped me too soon, I’ll go skating again,
As the door on its hinges, so she on her skates,
Turns gracefully, and expectantly waits.

A little more skating, a little more rinking,
Thus she wastes half her days, and her hours without thinking
And when she’s at home, she but lolls in a chair,
And wonders how soon she again will go there.

On her way to the rink I once chanced to be nigh her,
And I thought that she held her head higher and higher,
So fine was the dress she wore, I quite shuddered to think
Of the money she wastes on the terrible rink.

I made her a visit, still hoping to find
She took some little care for improving her mind;
She told me her feats, talked of dressing and rinking,
But scarce reads a book, and never loves thinking.

Then I said to myself, “Here’s a lesson to me,
This woman’s a pattern of what I might be,”
But I’m proud to confess, and I can without blinking,
I much prefer reading and writing to rinking.

_Idyls of the Rink._ JUDD & CO., London, 1876.

――――――――

A MORAL SONG FOR ELECTION TIME.

’Tis the voice of BRITANNIA, I heard her explain
“I’m wide awake now; I wont slumber again;
As Materfamilias, once out of bed,
I must sack my late servants, and turn off their head.

“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber,
And my wars, big and little, had grown out of number;
Over vanishing trade I’d have had to fold hands,
Perplexed not with orders, but debtor’s demands.

“I passed Jingo’s Music Hall, lit with blue fire,
That on Russia’s big bogey blazed higher and higher,
I heard “_Rule Britannia_,” saw waving of flags,
With a great deal by way of bounce, bunkum, and brags.

“I called upon Jingo, as hoping to find,
Common sense had found access, at length, to his mind,
But he told me his dreams, talked as if he’d been drinking,
For he reads the _D. T._, and has long given up thinking.

“Then, said _Punch_ to JOHN BULL, ‘you take warning, J. B.,’
This Jingo’s a picture of what _we_ might be.
But thanks to our friends for the care of our breeding,
Who warned us, betimes, the _D. T._ against reading.

_Punch_, 1880.

――――――――

’Tis the voice of the glutton,
I hear him complain,
My waistcoat unbutton,
I’ll eat once again.

_Punch_, May 1864.

――――――――

THE MOAN OF THE “NATIVE.”

“Of all the inanimate objects which are inimical to the oyster, there is nothing so fatal as sand.” _Land and Water_, Oct. 23, 1880.

’Tis the voice of the oyster I hear him complain;
“I can’t live in this place, here’s the sandstorm again.
I was settling to rest ’mid the rocks and the tiles
They had made for a home, but this sand how it riles.
It gets into my shell, and the delicate fringe
That I use when I breathe; and I can’t shut my hinge
When the grit lodges there; so the crabs come at will,
Since my poor mouth is open they feed, and they kill,
I’ve complained to Frank Buckland, who quite understands,
But he cant undertake to abolish the sands.”
Thus the “Native” made moan, then I took up the brown
Bread-and-butter and lemon, and swallowed him down!

_Punch_, 1880.

PRAISE FOR MERCIES SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL.

Whene’er I take my walks abroad,
How many poor I see!
What shall I render to my God
For all his gifts to me?

Not more than others I deserve,
Yet God hath given me more:
For I have food while others starve,
Or beg from door to door.

How many children in the street
Half naked I behold!
While I am clothed from head to feet
And cover’d from the cold.

While some poor wretches scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
I have a home wherein to dwell,
And rest upon my bed.

While others early learn to swear,
And curse, and lie, and steal,
Lord, I am taught thy name to fear,
And do thy holy will.

Are these thy favours, day by day,
To me above the rest?
Then let me love thee more than they,
And try to serve thee best.
DR. WATTS.

――――――――

LONDON STREETS.
_A Moral Song, after an Obvious Original._

Whene’er I take my walks abroad
How many things I see
Which make me wish that Colonel Hen-
derson were there with me.

Not more than others I observe,
But things impress me more――
The noise, the filth, the area-sneaks
Who beg from door to door.

What borrowed children in the street
Half-naked I behold!
What sturdy hawkers howl and cheat,
And how the poor are “sold!”

Horses in ’bus and cab I see
O’erworked and underfed,
And overladen creatures fall
Upon the roadway――dead!

Teutonic bands disturb the street
Remote from noise and strife,
And organs grinding discord make
A misery of life.

On crowded pavements, two abreast,
Perambulators run,
To drive the folks into the road――
The nursemaids’ daily fun.

The _gamins_ early learn to swear,
And curse, and lie, and steal,
Too fleet of foot for him to race――
The bobby, named of Peel.

Such things as these are day by day
A scandal and a pest;
But Scotland Yard, with folded arms,
Snores on and takes its rest.

――――――――

THE IRISH LANDLORD’S SONG.

“Whene’er I take my walks abroad
My tenantry I see,
And each has got a blunderbuss,
A looking out for me.”

_Judy._

――――――――

PRAISE FOR MERCIES SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL.

I cannot take my walks abroad,
I’m under lock and key,
And much the public I applaud,
For all their care of me.

Not more than others I deserve,
In fact much less, than more;
Yet I have food while others starve
Or beg from door to door.

The honest pauper in the street,
Half-naked I behold;
While I am clad from head to feet,
And covered from the cold.

Thousands there are who scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head;
While I’ve a warm and well air’d cell,
A bath, good books, good bed.

While they are fed on workhouse fare
And grudged their scanty food:
Three times a day my meals I get,
Sufficient, wholesome, good.

Then to the British public health,
Who all our care relieves;
And while they treat us as they do,
They’ll never want for thieves.

This parody was ascribed to the pen of one Stephen Bills, a convict, and some twenty years ago his photograph could be obtained, with the parody printed at the back. Mr. Bills was there represented in the costume peculiar to gentlemen who are enjoying state hospitality. It is a curious circumstance that a very similar parody was included in the volume entitled “Wit and humour, by Shirley Brooks,” edited by his son, and published by Bradbury, Agnew & Co., London.

It would be interesting to know whether Mr. Shirley Brooks was the actual author, or whether he obtained the poem in the manner stated below:

SONG BY A CAGED BIRD.

The following lines were found in the cell of a discharged convict, who made his way into a Chaplain’s heart by piety, and, subsequently, into a jeweller’s shop by burglary.

_The spirit that dictated such an irreverence with Dr. Watts is worthy of the Author._

I cannot take my walks abroad,
I’m under lock and key,
And much the public I applaud,
For all their care of me.

Not more than Paupers I deserve,
In fact, much less than more,
Yet I have food while Paupers starve
And beg from door to door.

The honest Pauper in the street
Half naked you behold,
While I am clothed from head to feet
And covered from the cold.

While honest Paupers scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
I have a warm and well-aired cell,
With bath-room, gas, and bed.

While Paupers live on workhouse fare,
A grudged and scanty meal,
My table’s spread with bread and beer,
And beef, or pork, or veal.

Then since to honest folks, I say,
They put the Workhouse Test,
Why nix my doll palls, fake away,
You’ll like the Jug the best.
THE MODEL PRISON.

[This originally appeared in _Punch_, April 4, 1857.]

――――――――

COVENT GARDEN.
A HYMN OF HUMILITY.

[Over and over again has the Duke of Bedford been implored, adjured, entreated, and admonished to set Covent Garden Market and its approaches in order; but as yet he has practically turned a deaf ear to all the appeals made to him.――Daily Paper.]

Whene’er abroad we take our walks,
And choose the Covent Garden route,
We ask, “Do dukes like cabbage-stalks?
And are they fond of rotten fruit?”

We see the garbage piled on high,
We sniff an air whose odour tells
Of rank corruption; and we sigh,
“No doubt the duke approves of smells!”

We pick our way through filth and slime,
And, musing on the noisome flood,
The thought occurs to us in time,
“In politics dukes fling much mud!”

We watch the traffic raging round,
And filling every hole and nook,
Then say, “Of course this muddle’s found
To gratify his grace the duke.”

The grimy avenue we pace,
About the ugly sheds we pry;
“It’s hard,” we think, “to like the place,――
But then one lacks the ducal eye.”

We mark the slums that fester near,
And dirt and squalor still we find;
But reason whispers in our ear,
“It’s not so bad, or dukes would mind.”