WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 10)

Bassanio. What find I here? (Opening the leaden casket.) Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips, Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,— How could he see to do them? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look, how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. The Merchant of Venice, Act III. Scene II.

Bassanio. What find I here? Fair Portia’s counterfeit? What demi-god Hath come so near creation, and what Doth the demi-god, forsaken caitiff, charge Per dozen? Move these eyes? Or, whether riding On the balls of mine, seem they in motion? Ask me an easier one. Here are severed lips parted with sugar breath; Wonder if Jones—but, no! Perish The thought! And, also, perish Jones, The ringboned, spavined Jobberwock, If ever I do catch him hereabouts again! Here in her hair the painter plays the spider, And hath woven a mesh to entrap The hearts of men, one of whom am I, By a large majority, and several counties And unbribed districts to hear from. But her eyes! How could he see to do them? Having made one, methinks it would have power To steal both his—Ah! blessed thought! I’ll steal Her picture, now I hear her foot Upon the stairs! Merry Folks.

Song. Tell me where is fancy bred Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy’s knell; I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.

Song. (DEDICATED TO THE AUTHOR OF “GERMAN YEAST.”) Tell me what is Fancy Bread, Is it alum, or white lead? How begot, how fashioned? Reply, Reply. It is engendered from old bones With glazing fed; the eater moans, ’Neath its weight his stomach groans; Bread of Fancy, hear thy knell Sounded by the Muffin-Bell; Ding dong Bell. The Tomahawk, November 9, 1867.

The jollity of Nursey is not feigned; She hoppeth, as a genteel wren or raven, Upon the neighbouring heath. I’m thrice caress’d; Caress’d by her who used to bring me cakes! She’s tidiest of the tidiest; and becomes In face more youthful through revolving time. Oft has she, in bygone temperate hour, Dulled my young ears with jaw and minstrelsy, And there she’d sit, and tell me queer odd things; For Nursey used to love the spectred fay, Foibles, since foiled by Cooke and Maskelyne; But then, I somehow reck’d them true myself, And in my mite mind murmured “what’s the odds When Nursey’s reason just is?” Therefore you, Though rather bored I see, remember this: That grateful we should be, each one of us For early teaching. So I say to Nursey That her kind care doth prompt us all to tender The deeds of Nursey! Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley. (Cambridge, Jones and Piggott, 1883.)

Calves’ Foot Jelly. This quality of jelly must be strained, And drop through bags like gentle dew from heaven; And, when the right consistence is obtained, By Portia ’tis to sick Bassanio given. Judy, September 22, 1880.

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell (She knows that my purpose is cruel), I’d thank her to tingle her bell As soon as she’s heated my gruel. Go, get thee to bed and repose— To sit up so late is a scandal; But ere you have ta’en off your clothes, Be sure that you put out that candle. Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol. My stars, in the air here’s a knife!— I’m sure it can not be a hum; I’ll catch at the handle, add’s life! And then I shall not cut my thumb. I’ve got him!—no, at him again! Come, come, I’m not fond of these jokes; This must be some blade of the brain— Those witches are given to hoax. I’ve one in my pocket, I know, My wife left on purpose behind her; She bought this of Teddy-high-ho, The poor Caledonian grinder. I see thee again! o’er thy middle Large drops of red blood now are spill’d, Just as much as to say, diddle diddle, Good Duncan, pray come and be kill’d. It leads to his chamber, I swear; I tremble and quake every joint— No dog at the scent of a hare Ever yet made a cleverer point. Ah, no! ’twas a dagger of straw— Give me blinkers, to save me from starting; The knife that I thought that I saw Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin. Now o’er this terrestrial hive A life paralytic is spread; For while the one half is alive, The other is sleepy and dead. King Duncan, in grand majesty, Has got my state-bed for a snooze; I’ve lent him my slippers, so I May certainly stand in his shoes. Blow softly, ye murmuring gales! Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking! For though a dead man tells no tales, Dead walls are much given to talking. This knife shall be in at the death— I’ll stick him, then off safely get! Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth, For he’d ne’er stick at anything yet. Hark, hark! ’tis the signal, by goles! It sounds like a funeral knell; O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls To call thee to heaven or hell. Or if you to heaven won’t fly, But rather prefer Pluto’s ether, Only wait a few years till I die, And we’ll go to the devil together. Ri fol de rol, &c.

Incantation. (1828). Scene.—Penenden Plain, In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder—Enter three Brunswickers. 1st Bruns.—Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawl’d. 2nd B.—Once hath fool Newcastle bawl’d, 3rd B.—Bexley snores; ’tis time, ’tis time, 1st B.—Round about the caldron go, In the poisonous nonsense throw. Bigot spite, that long hath grown, Like a toad within a stone, Sweltering in the heart of Scott Boil we in the Brunswick pot. All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Eldon, talk, and Kenyon scribble. 2nd B.—Slaver from Newcastle’s quill In the noisome mess distil, Brimming high our Brunswick broth Both with venom and with froth. Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel, With that malty stuff that Chandos Drivels as no other man does, Catch (i. e. if catch you can) One idea, spick and span, From my Lord of Salisbury One idea, though it be Smaller than the “happy flea,” Which his sire, in sonnet terse Wedded to immortal verse.[36] Though to rob the son is sin, Put his one idea in; And to keep it company, Let that conjuror Winchelsea Drop but half another there, If he hath so much to spare. Dreams of murders and of arsons, Hatch’d in heads of Irish parsons, Bring from every hole and corner, Where ferocious priests, like Horner, Purely for religious good, Cry aloud for Papists’ blood, Blood for Wells, and such old women, At their ease to wade and swim in. 182 All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley talk, and Kenyon scribble. 3rd B.—Now the charm begins to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto Scraps of Lethbridge’s old speeches Mix’d with leather from his breeches, Rinsings of old Bexley’s brains, Thickened (if you’ll take the pains) With that pulp which rags create, In their middle, nympha state, Ere, like insects frail and sunny, Forth they wing abroad as money. There—the Hell-broth we’ve enchanted— Now but one thing more is wanted. Squeeze o’er all that orange juice, Castlereagh keeps cork’d for use, Which, to work the better spell, is Colour’d deep with blood of * * * Blood, of powers far more various, Even than that of Januarius, Since so great a charm hangs o’er it, England’s parsons bow before it. All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble. 2nd B.—Cool it now with * * * ’s blood, So the charm is firm and good. [Exeunt. Thomas Moore.

Is this a sovereign which I feel behind me. Slipp’d gently into my hand? Come, let me sack thee: Art thou not precious metal, sensible To vision as to touch? or art thou but A sovereign of the mind, a false sensation, Proceeding from the beer-oppressed brain? I feel thee yet, a coin as palpable As this I now produce. Thou hint’st to me the side whereon I’m going; And such a candidate I am to choose. My conscience is the weakest of my senses, Which should rule all the rest. I feel thee still— A blade that has no gudgeon in his blood, I ne’er was sold before. Pooh! no such thing; It is the freeman’s privilege which informs Thus to mine eyes. Now throughout all the land Protection’s dead; and wicked bribes abuse The voter’s trust; now Coppock celebrates Corruption’s offerings; and cunning Edwards, Subduing easy principle with pelf, Prowls on the watch, and thus with hidden face, The stumpy lavishes wide towards his design, Mute as a post. Ye men of sense and worth, Mark not my course, which way I vote, for fear, My very looks show I’ve been tamper’d with; And take the present honour from my name That now rests with it. Whiles I yet shall live, Votes I for treats and feeds and gold will give. I go and plump anon: the chink invites me. Hear it not, Beresford! for ’tis a knell That summons thee to follow Jacob Bell! Punch, August, 1852.

Witches (singing) We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh! We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh! We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh! Macbeth to terrify! Macbeth to terrify! Macbeth to terrify! It’s a way they had on the stage-oh! When Melodrame was all the rage-oh! The audience with spells to engage-oh! So we’ll at a spell have a shy! So we’ll, &c. THE INCANTATION. 1st Witch.— Apron strings of old maids-tabbies; Tongues of spifflicated babbies; Joinville of a greasy gent, Reeking with unhallowed scent. 2nd Witch.— Beards of maggots, maws of mummies, Fingers of flue-strangled chummies Heap in humbugs all to aid us— Banjos, bones, and serenaders! Holloway’s grease, and Frampton’s pills, Fuel fierce of human ills Mild emetics—one a dose is; Seventy-seven street-sweepers’ noses! 183 Fashion new, that taste perverts— See “the last new thing in shirts!” Slangy coats of aspect rare; And the “gent’s real head of hair!” All Three.— Double, double, toil and trouble— Fire burn, and cauldron bubble! Enter Macbeth. Macb.— That’s right, my hearties, keep the pot a boiling, I trust I’m not a family party spoiling. Perhaps you’ll tell me what it is you brew, For I’ve dropped in to take pot luck with you; That is, I’d know my destiny; you see, I’m not so easy as I’d wish to be. 1st Witch.— You’ve come to the right shop, my lord, for we Can read the future. Macb.— Read? You know full well, It takes you all you know to raise a cheerily. 2nd Witch.— Learn, Macbeth, for you’re haughtiness of late, Yours is a sort of horti-cultural fate! Macb.— No matter—let me know it! 1st Witch.— If it ease you But don’t blame me if what you hear don’t please you.

Making the Pudding. A Christmas Incantation. 1st Witch.— Thrice have I the currants picked! 2nd Witch.— Thrice; and I’ve the raisins stoned. 3rd Witch.— Then to mix ’tis time, ’tis time. 1st Witch.— Round about the pan then go, In the flour and bread crumbs throw; Salt and spice and suet add— See the last named is not bad; And with all your might and main, Mix and stir and mix again! All.— Hark! the pot begins to bubble We our labour must redouble. 2nd Witch.— Plums and currants now we take, And the sugar in we shake; Candied peel and citron, too— Get it fresh whate’er you do! And ere any item sticks Let us everything re-mix, All.— Never mind a little trouble, Extra praise will pay us double. 3rd Witch.— Now the eggs well beaten up Pour in gently from a cup; Add of milk a little drop, And from stirring do not stop Till the wooden spoon you pass Through a well commingled mass. Then when you can mix no more, Over all the brandy pour, None must idle then remain, Each in turn must mix again. All.— True, it seems a lot of trouble Ere it in the pot can bubble! 1st Witch.— Now the basins we prepare, Butter we each one with care, Then with pudding them we fill, And the cloth adjust with skill. See the water’s boiling hot, Ere we pop them in the pot, And not wishing them to spoil, For ten hours we’ll let them boil. All. — Now they’re in, the water bubbles! Comes the end of all our troubles. Enter Mistress of the House. M. of H.— Well done, girls, I commend your pains, One more duty only remains, You must all join hands and sing Like elves and fairies in a ring; And what time your puddings boil Sing, and thus forget your toil. Anonymous.

Mac Glad.— Here now methinks our ministry were safe, Were the graced person of our Gordon here, Him do I challenge for his obstinacy In sticking at Khartoum. Joe Mac C. His absence, sir, Is hard upon the Government. Please you, sir, To grace us with your everlasting speech. Mac Glad.— There is no seat. Mrs. Mac Glad.— Here is a place for you. Mac Glad.— Who has played me this trick? Joe Mac C.— What, Grand Old Man? (Ghost of Gordon rises and sits in Mac Gladstone’s seat.) Mac Glad.— Thou can’st not say I did it; never shake Thy gory locks at me. Mrs. Mac Glad.— O my good lord! Read the Spectator and the Daily News, So you shall see your veritable self No murderer, but simply one who sent A hero to his death, so you might gain A fair majority; and now that’s done You look but on a corse. Mac Glad.— Aye, there’s the rub; Blood I have shed ere now; blood must be shed If I am to keep office; murders, too Must be performed; but why does this man rise, 184 With thousands freshly massacred around him, To push me from my place? The public curse Is worse than murder. Joe Mac C.— By these affidavits, So cheaply forged in famous Brummagem, The Caucus lacks you. [Ghost disappears. Mac Glad.— Oh, my perjured friends, I have a strange infirmity: I see Red spectres in the watches of the night, Brave men I sent to death; but that is nothing To those who vote for me! Here’s wine, fill high, I drink a health to all my Cabinet; And to our dear friend Gordon whom we miss: Would he were here! But yet methinks he saved The Franchise Bill, and eke the Government, A truly Christian scapegoat. All.— Gordon’s health. [Ghost appears again. Mac Glad.— Avaunt, and quit my sight! the desert hide thee! I hoped the vultures would have ta’en thy bones; Thou hast appeals unanswered in thy hands, A dreadful diary. Mrs. Mac Glad.— Think of this, good friends, As but a thing of custom, though ’tis hard To hear a nation’s curses on his head. Mac Glad.— What man dare, I dare; Approach thou like the hated Beaconsfield, The Salisbury, or trenchant Randolph Churchill, Take any shape than that, and my glib tongue Can argue thee away! Alive again, Thou pointest to the desert with thy sword, And trembling I behold thee! Hark, they call The Grand Old Murderer! Hence, deathless shadow Accusing victim hence! (Ghost disappears, and Mac Gladstone goes off to read the Lessons in Hawarden Church.) H. Savile Clarke, 1885.

Shakespeare’s Recipe for Cooking a Beefsteak. If when ’twere done ’twere well done, then ’twere well It were done quickly.

Othello.—Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace: For since these arms of mine had seven years pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration and what mighty magic, For such proceeding I am charged withal, I won his daughter. Othello., Act I. Scene III.

The Strolling Player’s Apology. Most potent, gay, irreverend signiors, My very noble and approv’d good fellows; That I have been a vagrant strolling player, It is most true; true, I have been a mummer; The very head and front of my profession, Hath this extent; no more. Loud am I in speech, And little bless’d with the smooth phrase of towns; For since these arms of mine had seven years pith, ’Till now some nine months wasted, they have us’d Their dearest action in the rafted barn; And little of the theatre can I speak, More than pertains to claps, and groans, and hisses; And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver, Of my whole course of life; what cork, what brick dust, What poverty, and what mighty shifts, (For such calamities I’ve met withal) Rank me with your honours. Anonymous.

Kenealy’s Speech to the Senate. Most potent, grave, and reverent seigniors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have pleaded long Sir Roger’s cause It is most true. True, I have muddled it; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech, And little blessed with the set Commons’ phrase; For since these hands of mine held Roger’s brief Till now by Stoke elected, they have used Their dearest action in that troubled field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to bearding judge and jury, And therefore shall I little grace my cause In speaking of myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will the round unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of pleading—“proofs of hair,” Of “love maternal”—“manners most refined” (With such were the proceedings charged withal), I told as records of the Claimant’s life; 185 From year to year, with wrecks and butchering, Passed “under the broad canopy of heaven.” I ran it through even from his boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it; Therein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of Wagga-Wagga wandering to and fro, And his returning as the Rightful Heir. These things to hear The British public seriously inclined; And many a day did they with greedy ear Devour up my discourse: which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found the means To start a newspaper—The Englishman— Where all this pilgrimage I could dilate, Whereof by parcels they had something heard; And oft did I beguile them of their pence, When I did speak of some distressful stroke Which his youth suffered. My story being done, The judge and jury heeded not my sighs; They said in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful; They wished they had not said it; yea they wished That they had never heard the Claimant’s name, And bade me, if I had a foe I hated, Go tell him the everlasting story, And then my client doomed to durance vile. Then rose the readers of The Englishman, And cried throughout the land with one accord, “Appeal to Parliament!” On that hint I spake— They loved me for my notoriety, And I loved them since it did profit me— Therefore unto this Senate I appeal, That my lost client should at once be free! Funny Folks, May 8, 1875.

“Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls; Who steals my purse steals trash—’tis something, nothing, ’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands: But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed!”

“Who steals my purse steals stuff! ’Twas mine—’tisn’t his—nor nobody else’s! But he who runs away with my Good Name, Robs me of what does not do him any good, And makes me deuced poor!”

Othello.— O, now, for ever Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And, O you mortal engines,, whose rude throats The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone! Act III. Scene III.

“Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content! Farewell, the plumed head, the cushioned tête, That takes the cushion from its proper seat! That spirit-stirring drum[37]—card drums I mean, Spadille, odd trick, pam, basto, king and queen; And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat, The welcome visitor’s approach denote! Farewell, all quality of high renown, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town! Farewell, your revels I partake no more, And Lady Teazle’s occupation’s o’er!”

The Undertaker’s Farewell. O, now, for ever, Farewell the mourning coach! Farewell the scarf! Farewell the plumed hearse and the bad gloves, That make a funeral’s profit! O farewell! Farewell the sable steeds, and the black crape, The spirit-swilling mutes, the expensive pall, Pride, pomp, and vanity of gainful death: And you, ye undertakers, whose long bills The beak of snipe or woodcock counterfeit, Farewell! your knavish occupation’s gone. Punch, December, 1849.

O Evans! Middle-aged Man about Town loq.:— Farewell the quiet chop! the kidneys poached! Farewell the grizzled bones and the mixed drinks, That made abstention virtue—O, farewell! Farewell the ready waiter, the vague bill, The nose-enlivening pinch, eye-winking smoke, The kindly hand-shake, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of Paddy Green! And O you ancient Basses, whose rude throats The immortal Jove’s dread clamour counterfeit, Farewell!—A fellow’s occupation’s gone! Othello improved. Punch, November 1, 1879.

Shakespeare packing up his goods. “I had been happy, if the General Thumb, Barnum and all, had bought up the old house In which I ne’er was born. But now for ever Farewell the pencil’d wall! farewell the prints, Farewell the well-thumb’d book, and all the names 186 That made its pages precious! Oh, farewell! And oh you silver shillings, whose bright face Our blessed Queen’s fair portrait counterfeits, Farewell! Poor Shakespeare’s sole support is gone!” From The Man in the Moon, Vol. 2.

I had been happy if th’ united House, Pit, galleries, and boxes,—all had paid Their money cheerily, and riot we had none. Oh! now for ever farewell ambition’s hope! Farewell applause! and side-long glances From the boxes, thro’ the sticks of fan, Or from behind the kerchief-veiled face. Farewell our golden hopes of swelling bags, And long account at banker’s. Farewell ye wanton toys of feather’d cupid In th’ anti-chambers of the private annuals! Hark! the loud twanging of the bugle-horn, Th’ ear-piercing whistle, and terrific bell, The plaguy placard, drum, and deafening rattle; The voice Stentorian, and the serpent’s hiss! Sibilant,—all, all awake me From dreams delusive of eternal triumph! And ye, ye catcalls, of infernal sound, Whose barbarous sounds might even split the ears Of Belzebub himself,—cease your horrific din, No more the valiant Dan, with host of Israel, Flank’d and supported by the Bow-street tribe Of myrmidons, and bruisers squaring in the pit;— No more the phalanx dares to face the town. O’erwhelm’d by numbers and determin’d hate, No more the orders in the boxes now Support the managers,—but placards wave, And O. P.’s shine from every box! initials hateful; All, all, our efforts are in vain, and fate decides By the loud voice of the people,—irresistible, That prices be reduced, and privacies Thrown open.— Farewell,—Othello’s occupation’s gone! The Covent Garden Journal, 1810.

Brougham.— Look where he comes, not Ballot nor Church Reform, Nor e’en a Grant of Universal Suffrage, Shall ever give to thee that high respect Thou hadst but yesterday. ENTER THE PUPPET. Puppet.— Ha! ha! pelt at me? at me? Brougham.— Why, how now, Governor? no more of that. Puppet.— Avaunt! begone! thou’st set me on the rack, I swear, ’tis better to be much abused Than but to know’t a little. Brougham.— How now, my lord. 187 Puppet.— What sense had I, the Bill[38] would raise such a dust, I saw it not—thought it not—it harm’d not me, I slept the next night well—was gay and merry, I heard no curses on the peoples’ lips: He that is damned, not hearing of the damning, Let him not know’t and he’s not damned at all. Brougham.— I am sorry to hear this. Puppet.— I had been happy, if the general camp Volunteers and all had slaughtered every body, So I had nothing known! O now for ever Farewell the people’s love—farewell applause, Farewell the loud “hurrah” and big “huzzas” That made my rides so pleasant, O farewell! Farewell the wave of hats, and the shrill “bravo,” The kerchief-shaking, and all quality Bows, shouts—the glorious products of Reform. And O! ye papers! engines, whose anathemas Th’ immortal Figaro’s dread cuts counterfeit, Farewell! poor Billy’s occupation’s gone. Brougham.— Is it possible, my lord? Puppet.—(Going fiercely to him)— Villain! be sure you Prove the Bill was wanted, Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof, (Seizing him by the throat.) Or by the worth of mine illustrious crown, Thou had’st better have been born a dog—a dog, Brougham, Than answer my waked wrath. Brougham.— Is it come to this? Puppet.— If thou dost wrong poor Erin and humbug me, Never speak more—abandon all debate— On taxes, head taxes accumulate, Pass Bills to make Whigs weep, Tories amazed, For nothing can’st thou to damnation add Greater than that. Brougham.— O Place! O heaven defend me, Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense? Eldon be with you; take mine office—O wretched fool That liv’st to make thy Whiggery a vice; To be directly Whiggish is not safe. I thank you for this profit—and from hence I’ll be no Whig—since Whigs give such offence. (Going.) Puppet.— Nay, stay, I think the Bill is needed and think it’s not, I think the Whigs are right, yet think they’re not. Would I were satisfied. Brougham.— How satisfied, my lord, Would you the supervisor, go yourself to Erin, And see her people. Puppet.— Death and damnation! no! Brougham.— It were a tedious bore, I think To take an actual prospect: damn them, then. Puppet.— I’ll tear ’em all to pieces. Brougham.— Nay, but be wise, tell me but this— Puppet.— Oh, that the slaves had forty-thousand lives, One each is far too poor for my revenge. Now do I see ’tis time, look here, Brougham, All my reforming thus I blow to heaven, ’Tis gone— Assist, black Tories, the blood-thirsty bill, Yield up, O Whigs, thy former popularity To hateful tyranny. Brougham.— Pray be content. Puppet.— Blood, Brougham, blood. Brougham.— Patience, I say; our minds perhaps may change. Puppet.— Never. Brougham, By yonder civil list I here engage my words. (Kneels.) Brougham.— Do not rise yet: Witness you ever-turning Whigs above, You Tories too, still rolling round about, Witness, that here, Brougham doth give up The execution of his wit, hand, heart, To worthy William’s service! let him command, And to obey shall be in me remorse, What bloody work soe’er. Puppet.— I greet thy love, not with vain thanks, But with acceptance bounteous, Within these three months let me hear thee say O’Connell’s not at large. Brougham.— Daniel’s in quod, ’Tis done at your desire. Puppet.— Now art thou quite my Chancellor. Brougham.— I am thine own for ever. Exeunt.

It is the cause, by Jove, it is the cause; Let me not name it to you, ye wild Rads. It is the cause. Put out Lord John and then put in Bob Peel. Yet I’ll not oust the Whigs, Nor force the really able ones to go: I’d rather aid them with some sticking plaster. Yet he must out—or he’ll betray more men. Put out Lord John and then—put out the Whigs! If I extinguish thee, thou flaming minister, I can thy former place restore, should it repent me; But once put out the Whigs, I know not where That party is their places can supply.

Iago (a critic). How now, dear sir? [39]Othello (musing). What sense had I to be thus madly thrust Forth as Salvini’s rival? Though his Moor Was grand and passionate, it harmed not me. I slept the next night well, was free and merry; 188 The public hailed me still the coming man. He that is robbed, not wanting what is stol’n, Let him not know’t and he’s not robbed at all. Iago. I am sorry to hear this. Othello. I had been happy if a crowded house, Critics and all, had seen me in the Bells, Or Hamlet—but the Moor! O, now for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell the ringing cheer, the loud “brayvo” That echoed from Olympus! O, farewell To the young “gusher” of the Semaphore, Who oft such “civil service” did to me; To the loud Thunderer—to the shrilly trump Of the stern Tiser, and the Echo’s fife, The Royal Standard, and all quality. Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious Puff! And O, you mortal scribblers, whose swift pens The drama’s “palmy days” did counterfeit, Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone! Iago. Is it possible? But, sir—— Othello. Villain, be sure you prove me not the Moor. Or, by the worth of my Shakespearian fame, Thou hadst been better—better born a dog Than answer my waked wrath. Iago. Is it come to this? Othello. Make me to see ’t, or at the least so prove it That the probation bear no hinge nor loop To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life! Iago. My dear, good sir—— Othello. If thou dost quiz my Moor and mimic me, Never write more; abandon all remorse, On horror’s head horrors accumulate, Do deeds to make your editor amazed, For nothing canst thou to damnation add Greater than this. Iago. O grace! O heaven defend me! Othello. I think that thou are just and think thou art not I’ll have some proof. My fame, that was as fresh As Dian’s visage, cannot be grimed and black As mine own face! I’ll not believe it. Would I were satisfied! Funny Folks.

Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain. Measure for Measure, Act IV. Scene 1.

Hide, O, hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears! But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.

Take, O, take that bill away, That, alas! long since was due! Call again some other day, When the trees do bud anew— Maybe, dimly distant spring Some financial change will bring.

High Game. Take, oh! take the haunch away Which all sweetness hath forsworn; Never was more cruel day, Close and muggy was the morn. To stop my nose, alas! is vain; John, bring the salmon up again. Hide that fat, more white than snow, Which the ven’son’s bosom bears; To the haunch mine eyes will grow, Such a tempting form it wears; If my tongue from taste were free, Many a slice I’d eat of thee. Rhapsodies, by W. H. Ireland, 1803.

“The Wreath.” Take, oh take that wreath away, Which so many pennies cost, On which labour “ne’er-to-be— Calculated” has been lost: But true honour bring again;— “Peace with honour” is in vain. Send, oh send those pennies back To the fools who sent them you: They will all their pennies lack When their income tax is due. Though you’ve cozened such a mass, Turnerelli, you’re an ass.

The Wreath. (After an old model). I bought thee late a golden wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving me a hope that I Thy pensioner might be. But thou thereat didst only sneer, And wouldst have none of me; Since when I hate the thing, I swear, Not for itself, but thee. Funny Folks, July, 1879.

The Wreath Refused. Take, oh take that wreath away, Though it shine as bright as morn, Never shall the Lib’rals say, I am open to their scorn; And though you may come again, You will always come in vain. Hide, oh hide that saucy head, Which your portly body bears; Had you only brought instead Something which a noble wears, As they give to Gladstone now, You would then have saved this row. True, oh true I should have nipped This mad scheme when it began; But I did not think your gift Would be chaffed by every man. And, alas, my Honoured Peace, Does no longer gull the geese!

Erin’s Appeal to Britannia. Take, O, take Parnell away, Though so loudly he hath sworn; God forgive me if I say, Would he never had been born; And if thou canst take another, Take his sister;—take his mother! Take from poor unhappy maid All the “friends” that prey upon her; Keep the lot that hasn’t stayed— Prudent Egan and O’Connor; And if short of patriot vigour, Try O’Sullivan;—try Biggar! Anonymous. Grins and Groans, 1882.

Glou. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks; Nor made to court an amorous looking glass; I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 190 And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them; Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant upon mine own deformity: And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other: And if King Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false and treacherous, This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up, About a prophecy, which says that G Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.

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

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

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

Henry Irving Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is mistaken man: to night he puts forth The jingling Bells; then Charles; then the mad Dane, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: Then comes a sudden frost, a fearful frost; And,—when he thinks, good easy man full surely His eminence is admitted—stops his flight And down, kerslap! he tumbles! I have fancied, Like frogs puffed up with pride, myself an ox; And grew so swollen with my own vain-glory, That I was doomed to burst. My fragments fell Upon that new laid stage expressly built, [40]By Mrs. B., to bear me stiffly up. Thus I am left a prey For some rude knaves that will for weeks yet hide me. Remorseless scribblers of the press, I hate ye! I feel ye at my throat,—yet there is one— One silver-haired old man who swears by me, Who comforts me be Times with lines of praise, And says ’tis quite O. K. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on critics’ favors: There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet incense of printer’s ink, and blame, More pangs and fears than wars or women have. No matter! He proclaims me eminent, And in his burning words no trace of slate— Thus may I hope again. The Figaro, October 2, 1875.

“Farewell, a long farewell to all my teapots; My tazzas, plaques, medallions, dishes, cups; For all are gone—no shred remains behind. This is the way with man. To-day he buys The choice, cracked specimens of divers wares; Collects with ardour Dresden, Chelsea, Bow, 192 And ransacks town for Derby and Berlin; With taste eclectic, if not critical, Fills all his rooms. To-morrow, hugs his store, And swears that not one vase, one plate shall go. The third day comes, and straightway in The Times Doth Christie set forth in advertisement The details of that once-loved china store, And sells by public auction every piece. This is the fashion—I have followed it, My china, like my former fame, is gone; I have outlived my greatness and my ware; My Wedgwood and my power alike have passed. The thought is very bitter. Oh how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on people’s favor! Two years ago I was the ‘People’s William,’ My name a power at Greenwich and elsewhere. The Churches trembled, and the Income Tax Shook lest its last twopenny pieces went. I was Dictator then.” * * * * * * * The Kentish Mercury, July 3, 1875.

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

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

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

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

Song. Guiderius. Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task has done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 194 Arviragus. Fear no more, the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Guiderius. Fear no more the lightning flash. Arviragus. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Guiderius. Fear not slander, censure rash; Arviragus. Thou hast finish’d joy and moan: Both. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. Guiderius. No exorciser harm thee! Arviragus. Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Guiderius. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Arviragus. Nothing ill come near thee! Both. Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave! Act IV. Scene II.

TO L. P. ON TAKING HIS DEGREE. Fear no more the voice of the don, Nor the oft-cut tutor’s rages, Thou thy Oxford course hast run, And art numbered with the sages. All Oxford men, its my belief, Must graduate or come to grief. Fear no more the snarl of the sub[41], Thou art past that tyrant’s stroke. No more buttery beer, and grub, No more rows with sported oak! Even X.—— himself, its my belief, Must graduate or come to grief! Fear no more the bull-dog’s dash, Nor pursuing proctor’s tone. Fear not rustication rash, Thou art now a graduate grown! All we, like thee, its my belief, Must do the same or come to grief! No dun’s accountant harm thee! No ugly woman charm thee! Tick unpaid forbear thee! Never bill come near thee! Prosper, flourish, gain renown, Ere you take the master’s gown! Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A. (London, J. C. Hotten, 1872).

Duke S. I think he be transform’d into a beast; For I can no where find him like a man. First Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence; Here was he merry, hearing of a song. Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him. Enter Jaques. First Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach. Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company? What, you look merrily! Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest, A motley fool; a miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool; Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun, And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms and yet a motley fool. “Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he, “Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune;” And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock: Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags. ’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ’twill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep-contemplative, And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

A fool, a fool!—I bet a fool i’ the forest, A botley fool;—a biserable world! As I do live by—attishu—food, I bet a fool; Who laid hib dowd ad bask’d hib id the sud, Ad rail’d od Lady Fortude id good terbs, Id good set terbs—attishu—ad yet a botley fool. “Good borrow, fool,” quoth I, “Dough, Sir,” quoth he. “Call be dot fool till heaved has sed be fortude.” Ad—attishu—thed he drew a dial frob his poke, Ad lookid od it with lack lustre eye, Says very wisely, “It’s ted o’clock; Thus we bay see” quoth he, “how the world wags, Tis but ad hour ago sidce it was dide; Ad after ad—attishu—hour bore, ’twill be eleved; Ad so frob hour to hour, we ripe ad ripe, Ad thed frob hour to hour we rot ad rot, Ad thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear, The botley fool thus boral od the tibe, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep-codtebplative; Ad I did laugh, sads idterbissiod. Ad—attishu—hour by his dial. O doble fool! A worthy fool! Botley’s the odly wear—attishu! Funny Folks, 1885.

Melancholy Jaques on the Dude. A dude—a dude! I met a dude i’ the avenue; A silly dude;—a most conceited blockhead!— As I do live by toil, I met a dude, Who sucked his cane, and basked him in the sun, And ogled all the ladies with his grin; With good broad grin, and yet a silly dude. “Good morrow, dude,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he. “Call me not dude till I have put on corsets;” And then he drew an eye-glass from his poke, And looking through it with lack-lustre eye, Said, very softly, “She’s the proper soot! Thus may we see,” quoth he, “how the world wags: The last that passed was ugly as my cane; The next that comes may be a very angel. And, so from hour to hour, we bloom and bloom, And then, from hour to hour, we fade and fade, And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear The silly dude thus comment on the girls, My toes began to itch like chilblain toes, That dudes should be so deep-nonsensical; And I did kick, sans intermission, That dude for half an hour. Oh, noble dude! A worthy dude!—skin-tight’s the only wear.

All the world’s a Newspaper! And all our men and women merely readers: They have their tastes and their hobby horses, And each one in his turn receives a part, The number being seven—First the Poet, Fond of the jingling line and tinsel smile, Enjoying tortur’d sense and strangling art, But if the line flows smoothly to its end, For ever bathing in the Aonean font; Him nought but sonnets, stanzas, odes, delight, And so he reads his part. Next comes in view The sober, softly-sighing Sentimentalist, Seeking for rapture in the—dashy—line, The Shandean tale, ill told compar’d with Sterne’s, They fragments choose, and tales and anecdotes. Next the Wit, relishing the fun obscene If but the point be gross—Him repartees, Bon mots and gummy epigrams must please. And then the Politician, full of strange whims; Seeking essays, strictures, observations, With solemn phiz, talking of revolutions, Patriot armies, sieges, and leagues of despots; Of neutral powers and of neutral rights, cabals, Of foreign interference, suability of states, And all the mazes of the court police. He marks each signature—what Brutus writes he reads, And turns his eye from Cassius—sees in some men The wish to bond us to a foreign yoke; In others, sees the wish for nature’s state, And have the curbed bit of law destroy’d, That like the savage all might rove at will, Free as the air they breathe; while some he sees, Who wish the government of purest source And subordination, might secure Our fair inheritance—These form the general mass. Next comes the Economist, hunting for recipes, Receipts, experiments.—With up turn’d nose He runs o’er prose and verse, and like to Hotspur Had rather be a Kitten and cry mew Than, one of these same metre ballad loves. The grade of Moralist next advance to view! Fond of the maxim sage, and sober precept: They once a week expect their frugal fare, To mend the manners and instruct the mind, Last comes the pale and slipper’d Wonder Hunter, Intent on dying speeches,—hurricanes, Malignant fevers, pestilence and want.— Of thousands butcher’d on the bloody field, And thousands starving in the wasted land, They thunder storms delight in, and seek With earnest eye for deaths and murders, Of people drown’d, or burnt, or suffocated, Learn whom the Knot of Hymen has fast tied, And whom the Knot of Justice faster noos’d; With the long list of every human ill. These all must have their part. The printer, else, Is but the standing mark of censure loud, These tastes not gratified, they will all growl, And cry the papers barren, empty, dull, Sans news, sans sense, sans art, sans everything.

Bud, Blossom, and Decay. “All the world’s a stage” in several stages; Great Shakespeare says our acts are seven ages, “And all the men and women players merely.” See “As you like it,” which informs us clearly We have our entrances and exits here, And many of us no great shakes appear. “King John,” “Macbeth,” and others of his plays, Confirm our wickedness in many ways; First, the Infant in its nurse’s arms, it “Mewles and pukes,” and as it cries she calms it. Next there’s the Schoolboy constantly declining The verb “to work,” and with his satchel whining, As on he creeps, like snail, at slug-gard’s pace— A sun not always “with a shining face:” Until he learns ’tis easier to be good, His master being in th’ imperative mood; And if the youth is backward in the school, He has his knuckles reddened with the rule. The rule of three he does not deem much fun, While he is flinching at the rule of one, Who makes him only ten times more perplexed; The lover, à la Vilikin comes next, And who, like Vilikin, trolls out a ballad As neatly garnished as a lobster salad; “Made to his mistress’ eyebrow;” to some air, Which howsome’er she says she cannot bear. Sometimes this age betokens noisy gent Not coming home till midnight is far spent Who cannot from the knockers quite abstain, Of which the quiet inmates will complain. Sometimes these fast young men after the play, At Cyder Cellars turn night into day, This they call “Killing time,” until they learn Old Time may, perhaps the compliment return. Then come the Soldiers and the Volunteers— In other words the prime of life appears— Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, zealous when on guard; Seeking without the least intimidation, What Shakespeare calls “the bubble reputation.” ’Tis strange they are not bored with so much drilling, While practising the noble art of killing! Next is the Justice, and he just is fat, Living on law—not always justice that! Proving beyond all doubt, by frequent panting, 196 The law he lives on is not that of Banting; His body (outside) like a water butt But not within! His beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws (such as are seldom seen Excepting at a carpenter’s I ween) And modern instances; and so he plays His part, until he sees declining days Announce another age, when enters soon The sixth, “the lean and slippered Pantaloon,” “With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side, “His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide “For his shrunk shank;” his voice begins to fail, And whistles up and down the vocal scale. Last scene of all this history that ends, Is mere oblivion of those trusty friends Who gather round us, and who thus endeavour To cheer and comfort ’ere we leave for ever This busy, meddling, moneymaking world; Sans teeth, as into it we once were hurled Indeed, for time can no more changes ring, “Sans sight, sans taste, sans smell, sans everything, And so the curtain falls, thus ends the play Which might be named “Bud, Blossom and Decay”! The time is short between each act, and we Should note the changes, and our errors see And thus a wholesome lesson may be gained, The proper sentiment being yet retained Without a jest against the reader’s will, Though slightly altered, “As you like it” still. T. F. Dillon-Croker. From The Ladies’ Companion, March, 1865.

“All the world is but a stage,” Shakespeare told us long ago, Had he graced the present age, still the Bard had found it so; All that from existence springs, in a theatre’s compass lies, Happy moments find the “wings” time itself takes those and “flies,” Hopes that light us on the way may be called of life “the floats,” Turning gloomy night to day, as the prompter Fate denotes; Fortune gives the glare of gas, and oft causing sad mishaps, With unsteady hand, alas! speculation work “the traps,” Fate gives out the parts to play, various “lengths” assigned to each, Happy who their “tag” can say, in a good concluding speech; Every act applause will get, if the action be correct, Ending with a kind of “set” most productive of effect. Suppers should take place in both—cheering signs of lively chats; Some too often show “a cloth” closed in by a “pair of flats.” Help our brethren, worn with age—Shakespeare was of truth a sayer “All the world is but a stage,” you and I alike—a player. E. L. Blanchard. From The Royal Dramatic College Annual, July, 1866.

Life at Oxford. ——Oxford is a stage, And all the men in residence are players: They have their exeats and examinations; And one man in his time plays many parts. His acts being seven ages. At first the Freshman, Stumbling and stuttering in his tutor’s rooms. And then the aspiring Classman, with his white tie And shy desponding face creeping along Unwilling to the schools. Then, at the Union, Spouting like fury, with some woeful twaddle Upon the “Crisis.” Then a Billiard-player, Full of strange oaths, a keen and cunning card Clever in cannons, sudden and quick in hazards, Seeking a billiard reputation E’en in the pocket’s mouth. And then the Fellow, His fair round forehead with hard furrows lined, With weakened eyes and beard of doubtful growth, Crammed with old lore of useless application, And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and study-worn Professor, With spectacles on nose and class at side; His youthful nose has grown a world too large For his shrunk face; and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is utter donnishness and mere nonentity, Without respect, or tact, or taste, or anything. The Oxford Spectator, May 19, 1868.

A Shakespearian Recitation after Dinner. ——All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad, In his sound childish treble: then the lean And slipper’d schoolboy, whistles, with side on Pouch and pipes, and his big manly voice Full of wise oaths; and then the whining lover, With spectacles on nose, and eyes severe, Seeking his well-saved mistress’ eyebrow Even in his satchel: Then a soldier, His youthful hose, of formal cut, sans taste, Made to his shank, and full of modern saws, Creeping like snail, sans everything, to school: And then the justice, full of strange instances, Jealous in honor, like the ’pard bearded In quarrel, turning again, sudden and quick, Towards childishness, with shining morning face A world too wide for his shrunk nurses arms, And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts, Unwillingly, the bubble reputation, Sans teeth, sans eyes, into the cannon’s mouth, Mewling and puking: Then, last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second pantaloon, and mere oblivion. Frederic Upton, 1885.

Song. Amiens. Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird’s throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. “As you like it.”—Act II. Scene V.

The Lambeth Catch. (Written after the revelations of the “Amateur Casual.”) Under the Greenwood shed Who loves to go to bed, And tune his husky note To paupers’ coughing throat? Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see Such thin Skillèe Keep body and soul together. Shirley Brooks, 1866.

The raging Rads Are blackguardly cads, With lots of fads, About men’s rights. 198 But Churchill’s star Shall shine from far, And make and mar All lesser lights.

THE NEW MINISTRY’S STATEMENT TO THE COUNTRY. If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to offend, But with good will. To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Consider, then, we come not in despite, We do not come as minding to content you, Our true intent is. All for your delight We are not here. That you should here repent you, The Cabinet is formed; and by their show, You shall know all that you are like to know. THE PUBLIC. Their speech is like a tangled chain. Truly this is hot ice, and wondrous strange snow. Where shall we find the concord of this discord? Funny Folks, July 4, 1885.

Oberon. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine: There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Act II.,—Scene I.

A Monody on Money. Dedicated to Our “Very” Particular Bankers. “I know a bank” where busy men are daily seen to pore Over their books with earnest zeal from ten o’clock till four, From whose retreat are issued forth more rich and treasured notes Than ever have been known to come from sweetest song-birds’ throats. Where crowns abound, and sov’reigns rule the place with despot sway, For no one there will check their power, so well belov’d are they. There seems a money mania for everything that’s dear, And, strange as it may seem, I’ve heard that far-things here are near. Cleopatra drank pearls, they say, but here she is outvied, If pork they wish, they’ve guinea pigs; if beef, the silver side. Their drink is pure aqua d’ora, and I have heard it’s true Their servant men are Bills and Franks, their housemaid is a Sou. And now, before I end my lay, I ought to make it known That though this bank is always thronged, each one may get a-loan; And though these bankers care for gold, it never can be said Matter-o’-Money it will be if ever they are wed. Fun, 1879.

Shakespeare at Paddington. I know a bank whereon foul road-slush flows, Where passing one hath need to hold one’s nose; Where the familiar slop-carts do combine To store malodorous muck in fetid line. 199 There drowses heavy Bumble day and night, Lulled into stupor to his soul’s delight. He, with his pompous Paddingtonian kin, With well-plumped pocket and with well-filled skin, Allows the fetid foul fermenting mass To nauseate the souls of all who pass. Addendum by Mr. Punch Bumble’s our “Bottom”!—written down an Ass! Punch, October 27, 1883.

“I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Salisbury and make him smile, When I a fat and bean-fed squire beguile, Speaking in likeness of a Tory rôle. And sometimes lurk I in the Lib’ral’s bowl, In very likeness of a Democrat; And when he speaks, against his lips I bob, And contradict him with my Tory tale.” Funny Folks, May 5, 1884.