WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 9)

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

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

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

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

Three children sliding on the ice, All on a summer’s day; The ice it broke—they all fell in— The rest they ran away. Now had these children staid at home, And slid upon dry ground; They broken necks had had, perchance, But never had been drown’d.

Song, Hamlet.—Tune, “Here we go up, up, up.” When a man becomes tired of his life, The question is, “to be, or not to be?” For before he dare finish the strife, His reflections most serious ought to be. When his troubles too numerous grow, And he knows of no method to mend them, Had he best bear them tamely, or no?— Or by stoutly opposing them end them? Ri-tol-de-rol, etc. To die is to sleep—nothing more— And by sleeping to say we end sorrow, And pain, and ten thousand things more— O, I wish it were my turn to-morrow! But, perchance, in that sleep we may dream, For we dream in our beds very often— Now, however capricious ’t may seem, I’ve no notion of dreams in a coffin. Ri-tol-de-rol, etc. ’Tis the doubt of our ending all snugly, That makes us with life thus dispute, For who’d bear with a wife old and ugly, Or the length of a chancery suit? Or who would bear fardels, and take Kicks, cuffs, frowns, and many an odd thing, When he might his own quietus make, And end all his cares with a bodkin? Ri-tol-de-rol, etc. Truly, death is a fine thing to talk of, But I’ll leave to men of more learning; For my own part, I’ve no wish to walk off, For I find there’s no chance of returning.— After all ’tis the pleasantest way, To bear up as we can ’gainst our sorrow, And if things go not easy to-day, Let us hope they’ll go better to-morrow.— Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.

“To sleep, or not to sleep—that is the question, Whether ’tis well to suffer indigestion; Or bear the burden of a dozen ills, Whilst Mr. Cockle offers me his pills. To have a headache, and a tongue that shocks, Whilst they are sold at thirteen-pence a box.”

“To be in debt or not, that is the question, Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to go to Mr. Howse, in Staples Inn, And thus take arms against a sea of trouble.”

Être ou ne pas être—O mystère! Mourir—dormir—rêver. Ah! s’il m’était permis pour t’aller retrouver, De briser le lien qui m’attache à la terre! Mais après? Quel est-il ce pays inconnu, D’où pas un voyageur n’est encore revenu? Être ou ne pas être—O mystère! Mourir-dormir! rêver peut-être!

To be or not to be? There you are, don’tcherknow! To die, to sleep! is that all? Forty winks? To sleep, to dream! Ah, that’s about the size of it! For from that forty winks when we awake In the undiscovered cotton-nightcap country From which no passenger ever took a return-ticket—— Why—ah, yes—humph!—exactly—very much so! Who, but for what the vulgar call “blue funk,” Would bear the rough and tumble of the world, Be down’d on by the rich, plagued by the poor, Married by widows, and by orphans worried? Who’d bear April’s east wind or June’s perpetual rain, The Income-tax, Lord Randolph Churchill’s questions, Middlesex Magistrates, Mud-Salad Market, Crass commentaries on Shakespearian quartos. And all earth’s ills, from Furnivall to toothache, When that himself he might his gruel give In half a jiffy? Who’d put up with it, But for the thought of worse things turning up In the Micawber Limbo—By-and-by? Quite so! ’Tis bother, doubt, hope, fear, cant, gush. The fads of noodles and of nincompoops, Fogging the brain and flooring common sense, Which make us grin and bear the ills we have Rather than, à la Furnivall, to make “A hasty try to set ’em right.” Ah, yes, ’Tis noodledom makes cowards of us all!!!

Furnivallos. A year or two ago, and I Had hardly read a line of Shakespeare’s works— Or so-call’d works. For why? Have I not found them, in such transient time, A nest of fledgings, and of mixèd rhyme Without much reason—Heav’n save the mark!— Cribb’d from Boccaccio’s self, or Chaucer’s pages dark? In later days, the hands, Or rather quills, of Jonson, Beaumont too, Have serv’d to make a hash of what this William Shakespeare drew! And I alone of all the wits can show it; For am I not the Critic of our Poet? A thought occurs—it is not always so Since my poor brains are like my means, too low; And when I want them sharp, alas! they’re slow! I’ll found a fresh Society, call’d “New,” And try if I can’t, by much reading hard, Impart “new readings” to th’ “Immortal Bard,” Shifting the false lights from the dazzling true— Though I for one, find them but very few!— And thus prove Shakespeare’s after all a myth, And muff!—akin to Jones, or Brown, or Smith.”

“Nothing that Shakespeare wrote, came from his head, Which was a Warehouse stored with stolen goods,— 164 And thus he warbled of the hills and woods In Cuckoo notes. * * * * * So now to work, and bring before your Eyes, The fact that Shakespeare’s Plays are only Lies!”

This “bosh” your Chairman talks of Shakespeare’s Plays is But hideous Nonsense, and my Anger raises; For though to some extent he may be right, His Tests are wrong, and here I take a sight At his Foot-rule, his Measures, Pauses, Endings. Since Shakespeare, in despite such Tinker’s mendings, Must e’er remain—whatever Dolts may say— “The Wonder of all Time.” And now, good-day Furnivallos, and your slavish, fawning Crew, With whom again I’ll nothing have to do; Though, ere I go, or quit this “New Society,” Let me advise all, and with strict sobriety, To change its Name, and so coin heaps of guineas, And call it Shakespeare’s “Newest Nest of Ninnies!”

‘O, what a noble minde is here o’re-throwne? The Courtiers, Soldiers, Schollers, Eye, tongue, sword.’

‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The expectancy and rose of the fair state.’

A Parent’s Counsel. You are about to go away my son, So take away with you the wise advice of one Who knows the world, boy, and don’t think much of it, 165 “Neither a borrower, nor a lender be,” Of course from choice, the former certainlee. If in a scrape and in the wrong, declare it, Never attempt to justify it; square it. Learn to say “No” to most things—seldom “yes.” If you should see a female in distress, Remember the advice of your sage sire, Call the police and gracefully retire. As the apparel oft proclaims the man, Why, do as many tailors as you can. In short, if you attend to all I tell, You’ll find that you will get on very well. Henry J. Byron.

Norma.—Now this sound code of business we’ll arrange, We’ll only take bank notes, and give no change, And won’t sell anything to any buyer That any one could possibly require. Now, priestesses, be good enough to tell The articles that you’ve prepared to sell. Adalgisa.—(producing cap) a smoking cap— Norma.—Ah, there, at least, he’s thwarted, For (hush) tobacco isn’t yet imported! Adalgisa.—Some scented soap. Norma.—They’re certain to refuse it— Italians, generally, do not use it! Adalgisa.—A razor-case, completely stocked. Norma.—That’s brave! For warriors are not allowed to shave! Adalgisa.—Braces, embroidered with initial letter. Norma.—Embroidered braces? Nothing could be better! No Roman wears, in all the martial train, The garments they’re intended to sustain! Adalgisa.—How shall we bear ourselves to-morrow, pray? Norma.—Attention, and I’ll point you out the way. With pretty speech accost both old and young, And speak it trippingly upon the tongue. But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh, With clumsy ogling, and uncomely chaff, As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs, I had as lief a huckster sold my wares. Avoid all so-called “beautifying,” dear. Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear, The things that men among themselves will say Of some soi-disant beauty of the day, Whose face, when with cosmetics she has cloyed it, Out-Rachel’s Rachel! Pray you, girls, avoid it! Neither be ye too tame, but, ere you go, Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe, Offer them coyly to the Roman herd, But don’t you “suit the action to the word,” For in the very torrent of your passion, Remember modesty is still in fashion. Oh, there be ladies whom I’ve seen hold stalls— Ladies of rank, my dears, to whom befalls Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies; So clumsily “made up” with Bloom of Cadiz, Powder, rouge, lip-salve—that I’ve fancied then They were the work of Nature’s journeymen! Let her, whose hair is black with lustre mellow, Not dream of using dye to turn it yellow— She’ll find it argues (when at length she loses it) A sad ambition in the fool that uses it! Now get you ready. Exit Norma.

See what an incubus sits on our city? Pentonville’s gloom, the front of a huge workhouse A draught like ice to palsy and to pierce; A station like a leaden Limbo-waste, Dim-lighted as a fog-bound Ludgate Hill. A combination and a form indeed, Where every hideousness doth set its seal To give the world assurance of—a Horror! Such is our Terminus! Punch, December 1882.

Look here upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two smokers; See what a grace is seated on this brow; Luxuriant smile, the type of joy itself! An eye all beams, so pleasant and upturned, Expressing pleasure at the dainty ‘Cig.’ New lighted; mark the heaven-kissing curl: ’Tis fascination to that precious weed; Wherefore men doth feverishly break the seal That gives the world assurance ’tis the GEM. This is one smoker; look you now what follows: Here is the other, like a sickly child Taking its nauseous powder; hath he taste, That he can suck at such a weed, That scatters out its dust? Ha! has he eyes? You cannot say he has; for he would sure Seek out a better brand; the weed is humble, And palls upon the palate; and what palate Would take such stuff as his? Oh, man! for modest cash ‘The Richmond Gem.’ Is sweet and fragrant to the smoker’s mouth; To youth its virtues are as plain— To smoke is to admire. (Vide Hamlet, Act iii., Scene iv.) St. Stephens’ Saturnalia, December 1884.

Oph.— O, dear Papa, I’ve been in such a fright! Sewing just now a button on your night— Pol. [interrupting],—166 My love, I blush! Oph.— (Well you know what I mean) In came Lord Hamlet, anything but clean! Pale as his hose, or Hosier’s Ghost the rather; His stockings were so very dirty, Father His old and seedy neckerchief awry! Pol.— My daughter, reverence an ancient tie. Oph.— Unbrac’d his doublet! And O, such a hat! Pol.— I know it well: the Prince invented that![35] Oph.— Uncomely, and uncombed about the head, I don’t believe he’d really been in bed; Or, if he had been, why he’d been and slept In that bin where the Palace flour is kept. And then his boots! At those I up and spoke:— “Is then the Warren stopp’d and has Day broke? Go to the scraper! to the door-mat run! Our Turkey’s getting rather overdone.” Pol.— And did the scraper clear him from his scrape? Oph.— By no means—with a look, black as the crape Upon his four and ninepenny, he came And took my hand; and then he press’d the same Which seem’d to do him good—for then he smil’d— And came it strong, and wouldn’t draw it mild— In fact he kiss’d me! Pol.— O, the man is mad! Oph.— For kissing me! I can’t see that, my dad! Pol.— Well, on reflection, ’tis not strange my puss! Being in a hurry, why he took the Bus. Oph.— A stage box on that bus he might have ta’en. But since to be his debtor I disdain, I would not keep his kiss but gave it back! Pol.— Bestowed, in short, another kind of smack. Oph.— His was a blunder-bus, and so my sire, A small salute I from my smack did fire. Pol.— What did he say? Oph.— He never told his love, But look’d it most uncommon! Pol.— Like a dove With a sore throat; What then? Oph.— O such a sigh! Pol.— You prick’d him with your needle. Oph.— No, not I! O, such a sigh, my Father, as would fill The great Nassau Balloon, or turn a mill. Pol.— Few men can raise the wind like that, my duckey! And then what next? Oph.— The Prince, Pa, cut his lucky. Pol.— He’s mad, and mad for love of you. Oph.— O la! How very nice! can madmen marry, Pa? Pol.— Doubtless, my daughter. Nay, it has been said None are quite compos when about to wed. I do remember much confusion here [pointing to forehead] When first I called your future mother “dear,” Saw Hymen’s torch-light in her glowing e’e, And caught her eyes a cauterising me, And O, the pride, when first in joyous vein, “Mrs. Polonius!” I said—“Champagne?” To which she answered (every word I treasure) “Aaron Polonius, I will with pleasure.” Polonius sings. Air—“The light of other days.” But all that sort of thing has faded, The honeymoon’s o’ercast! The horse, you know, is soonest jaded, Who goes at first too fast! The very deuce no long time after She play’d upon my life; And all our mirthsome love and laughter, She turn’d to weary strife. Pol.— Yes! Love is like some grand new Railway Line Which (the Prospectus tells us) must combine All the advantages to railways known, With much peculiar merit of its own: How easy, then the gradients to our sight, Surveyed thro’ Cupid’s false Theodolite. Trivial the outlay, small the risks appear (For then our telescope’s invert). But near, And huge the profits to our eye, for Hope Lends us her Hydrogen Gas Microscope. Mammas, as managing directors, sit;— Hear our petition, and the Act permit;— Our Scrip, the License, then we proudly claim; And Hymen’s Company enrols our name! Oph.— What then, Papa? Pol.— The newly-married pair Pay their first calls—a somewhat triste affair! Awhile the shareholders in peace repose; Dream Love’s young Dream—and all’s couleur de rose Till, on the waking ear (and purse) shall fall, Fearful and frequent the loud railway call! Oph.— What does that typify? Pol.— In married life, The shrill accostals of a scolding wife! Who, like an engine, when she’s on the rail At every obstacle must shriek and wail; Who like an engine (do not sneer my daughter) Cannot get on unless she’s in hot water; Who like an engine— Oph.— O, I do beseech This train of thought some Terminus may reach! Rake out your fire! or damp it: shall I ring For liquors? Pol.— No! If you would sooth me, sing! Cut out the Lind! for Denmark loves indeed To have a little turn-up with the Swede! Ophelia mia, beat that “Figli-a Del Reggimento!” Oph.— I’ve sore throat, Papa! Pol.— These singer’s ailment all lie in their throats! Stick some “Pulmonic Wafers” on your notes. Now to the Palace, for the king must know This news of Hamlet. Oph.— Yet, before you go— For dear Mama, myself, and sex combin’d, I’ll quote some verses just recall’d to mind: “When you were that unpleasant thing, A baby, who would smile and sing, ‘The like o’ this hath never bin’”? Pol.—[abruptly] My Mother! Oph.— Who thought that nothing would suffice But costly lace on frocks so nice,— And dare not tell Papa the price? Pol.—[less abruptly] My Mother! 167 Oph.— Who told the tale, in twilight gloom? Who read of witch astride her broom, And poor Cock Robin’s early tomb? Pol.—[somewhat affected] My Mother! Oph.— Who lov’d you, a mischievous boy? Who spread the jam? who bought the toy? Rejoicing in your every joy? Pol.—[much affected] My Mother! Oph.— If aught went wrong who bore the blame? Who wept, when first the “half-year” came? Who sent those hampers, fruit and game? Pol.—[with epicurean empressement] My Mother! Oph.— Who when you wrote some doggrel verse, Crimson with pride assured old nurse, ‘That parts of Milton were much worse?’ Pol.—[as conscious of genius] My Mother! Oph.— Who when the loutish age began, And boyhood’s thoughts on razors ran, Call’d you ‘the gentlemanly man?’ Pol.—[pulling up his collar, as though the maternity had well spoken] My Mother! Oph.— Who when they “pluck’d” you in the schools At “Little Go” ’bout Grammar Rules, Stoutly maintained “the Dons” were fools? Pol.—(approvingly) My Mother! Oph.— Who, in your youth’s hot giddy day, Revealed a better brighter way And kindled first-love’s glorious ray? Pol.—[fondly] Your Mother! Oph.— Who upon earth, who only, knows Th’ exact location of your clothes? Who marks your linen? darns your hose! Pol.—[gratefully] Your Mother! Oph.— Who best your pipe and glass can fill? Whose taper fingers light the spill? Who, if you’re poorly, knows Pa’s pill? Pol.—[ruefully.] Your Mother! Oph.— Who, when in sulky mood you fret— P’raps kick your corn, or lose a bet— Sings still, “We may be happy yet!” Pol.—[cheerfully.] Your Mother! Oph.— What tho’ sometimes o’er married life A cloud may come, a moment strife. Who makes the sunshine? Pol.—[enthusiastically.] O my wife! Your Mother! Who checks her Daddy in his spleen? Who makes his brow once more serene? And bids him say, “I’ve hasty been?” Pol.—[embracing.] My Daughter! Pol.— Woman for ever! Scold they as they will, Marriage! with all thy faults, I love thee still!

Britons rais’d an earthy mound, When e’re their Chieftains died, And I am digging under ground, Where delvers have not tried.

Clasps, Celts, and Arrowheads, I’ll try To claw within my Clutch, And if a Shield I should espy, I’ll vow there ne’er was such. With Popish Tricks, and Relics rare, The Priests their Flocks do gull In casting out the earth take care, Huzza! I’ve found a skull!

A Mattoc, Shovel, and a Spade, Will dig up human bones; To play at Marbles Britons made, Some small round Portland Stones. If Casques we find, or iron arms, Of curious form and make, Why surely they’re Roman charms, Your British creed to shake.

This Cist of Chalk just like a grave For such a guest is meet, As if asleep here rests the brave, Below the turf three feet.

Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where, To be a cold obstruction and to groan! This sensible, warm woman, to become A prudish clod, and the delighted spirit To live and die alone, or to reside With married sisters, and to have the care Of half a dozen children, not your own; And driven, for no one wants you, Round about the pendant world; or worse than worst, Of those that disappointment and pure spite Have driven to madness: ’Tis too horrible! The weariest and most troubled married life That age, ache, penury, or jealousy Can lay on nature, is a paradise To being an old maid.

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,) Walking between the garden and the barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken, standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And the domesticated fowl passed on, In henly meditation, bullet free.

My father had a daughter got a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I good looking, I should, your lordship. And what’s her residence? A hut, my lord, she never owned a house, But let her husband, like a graceless scamp, Spend all her little means,—she thought she ought,— And in a wretched chamber, on an alley, She worked like masons on a monument, Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed? From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S., 1854.

Benjamin Cæsar Redivivus. (On the recovery of Lord Beaconsfield from an attack of gout). Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day, Not like old Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, Will still go on in his corrupting play, Nor “stop a hole to keep the wind away.” Fiz, January 18, 1879.

Jaques.——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, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, 170 His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. As you Like it.—Act II.—Scene III.

The Stage Coach Company. ——Motley is a Stage; Where men and women all are passengers.— They have their middle and their corner seats; Which no one on the road presumes to change, Altho’ close-wedg’d with seven! And first the Lap-child, Mewling and pewking o’er your shoes and boots. And next the down-cast School-Boy, with his boxes, And pockets shilling-fill’d—and large plum cake, Which somewhat sweetens school! And next the Ensign, Cramming hot-rolls, and eyeing, at each cup, Molly, who serves the breakfast.—Next a Slumberer; Full of sour wine, with ill-look’d, unshav’d beard, Rolling his noddle, sudden in naps and wakings, Seeking the banish’d, chaste sobriety, Ev’n in the jolting coach!—And then the Vicar, In sloping belly, with fat tithe pig lin’d; With grizzled wig, and silken scarf-form’d vest, Strew’d with rappee; his elbows lifted high, ’Tis so he digs your ribs!—The sixth niche shows A meagre, mortified, warm-wrapp’d Old Maid; With morning cap snug-drawn, and muff up-held, Her curving nose and chin, seeking approach, The sole good points she shews, and her shrill voice Pour’d forth against the boldness of the age, Full oft repeats the theme!—Last plac’d of all, Which ends this “Worshipful Society,” Sits a young Nymph, in ev’ry thing reverse, Sans sleeves, sans coats, sans cap, sans everything! From Fugitive Verse and Prose, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester, 1803.

The Patriot’s Progress. ——St. Stephens is a stage, And half the opposition are but players: For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects, Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts, Their acts being sev’n. At first the Demagogue, Railing and mouthing at the hustings’ front: And then the cogging Candidate, with beer, Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to voters Unwillingly a pledge. And then the Member, Crackling like furnace, with a flaming story Made on the country’s fall. Then he turns Courtier, Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife, Pleas’d with all rulers, zealous for the church, Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy, Ev’n from the Canon’s mouth. And then a Secretary, In fair white waistcoat, with boil’d chicken lin’d With placid smile, and speech of ready answer, Lib’ral of promises and army contracts, And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings him To be a snug retired old baronet, With ribband red on breast, and star on side: His early zeal for change a world too hot For his cool age: and his big eloquence, Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes— And we must pay the piper. Scene the last, That ends this comfortable history, Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage, With cash, with coronet—with all but conscience. From Posthumous Parodies, published by John Miller, Bow Street, London, 1814.

The Seven Ages of Woman. ——“The world’s a stage,” And Man has seven ages,”— So Shakespeare writes (king of dramatic sages!) But he forgot to tell you, in his plan, That Woman plays her part, as well as Man. First, how the Infant heart with triumph swells, When the red coral shakes its silver bells; She, like young statesmen, when the rattle rings, Leaps at the sound, and struts in leading strings. Next, little Miss, in pinafore so trim, With nurse so noisy, and mamma so prim; Eager to tell you all she has learned to utter, Lisps as she grasps the allotted bread and butter; Type of her sex, who, though no longer young, Holds everything with ease—except her tongue! A Schoolgirl then, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father’s gout, and mother’s vapours; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows: “Betty” (she cries), “it comes into my head, Old maids grow cross, because their cats are dead; My governess has been in such a fuss About the death of her old tabby puss; She wears black stockings! Ha! ha! what a pother ’Cause one old cat’s in mourning for another!” —The child of Nature, free from pride and pomp, And sure to please, though nothing but a romp. Next, riper Miss, who, nature more disclosing, Now finds some traits of art are interposing; And, with blue laughing eyes behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor—Man! Behold her now—an ogling vain Coquette, Catching male gudgeons in her silver net; Whilst the fair forehead tresses, frizzled full, Rival the tufted locks that grace the bull! Then comes that sober character—the Wife, With all the dear distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a thousand joys extend, For what may not upon a card depend? Now she’ll snatch half a glance at opera, ball, A meteor traced by none, though seen by all; ’Till “spousy” finds, while anxious to immure her, A patent coffin only can secure her. At last the Dowager, in ancient flounces, With snuff and spectacles, she folly trounces, And, moralising, thus the age denounces: “How bold and forward each young flirt appears! Courtship, in my time, lasted seven years; Now seven little months suffice, of course, For courting, marrying, scolding, and divorce; They say we have no souls; but what more odd is— Nor men nor women now have any bodies! 171 When I was young, my heart was always tender, And would, to every spouse I had, surrender; Their wishes to refuse, I never durst, And my fourth died as happy as my first!” Truce to such splenetic and rash designs, And let us mingle candour with our lines: In all the stages of domestic life— As child or sister, parent, friend, or wife— Woman, the source of every fond employ, Softens affliction, and enlivens joy. What is your boast, male rulers of the land? How cold and cheerless all you can command! Vain your ambition, vain your wealth and power, Unless kind woman share the raptured hour; Unless ’midst all the glare of pageant art, She adds her smile, and triumphs in your heart! Anonymous.

The Seven Stages of Æstheticism. ——All the world’s Æsthetic, And all the men and women merely æsthetes; They have their yearnings and their ecstasies; And each man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven stages. First, the Philistine, Sneering at Art’s high transcendental charms; And next the clinging Pupil, with his lily And elongated chin, gliding like snake To study in the school. Then, the Acolyte, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful sonnet Made to a dado. Then, the full-fledged Poet, Full of strange whims, long-haired as Absalom, Jealous of fame, profuse of attitude, Seeking the bubble reputation E’en at the tea-pot’s spout. Then, the Professor, With bilious mien and clothes not wisely cut, His monologues quite too idealised, Bursting with Culture and the Infinite; And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts Into the lank and velvet-suited Humbug, With nippers on his nose and tuft on chin; His mystic style, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk audience; while his croaky voice, Striving again to rouse to rapture, seems But senseless in its sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is utter idiotcy and mere oblivion, Sans mind, sans taste, sans Art, sans everything.

The Seven Ages of Intemperance. ——All the world’s a bar room And all the men and women merely tipplers: They have their bottles and their glasses; And one man in his time takes many quarts, His drink being seven kinds.—At first the infant, Taking cordial in the nurse’s arms; And then, the whining school-boy with his drop Or two of porter, just to make him creep More willingly to school.—And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, o’er his lemonade Brewed into whisky-punch.—Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and reeling mad with brandy. Brutal and beastly, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the fiend Intemperance E’en in the gallon’s mouth.—And then the justice In fair round belly, with Madeira lined, Most elegantly drunk, superbly corned, Full of wise saws against the use of gin, And so he swallows wine.—The sixth drink Shifts into the lean and bloated dram-drinker, A spectacle his nose, he’s scorched inside; The wretch’s ragged hose, a world too wide For his shrunk shank: and his once manly hand, Shaking the cup of tea, well lined with rum, Seems now five palsied bones. Last drink of all, That ends intoxication’s history, Is laudanum, self murder’s long oblivion Sans Faith, sans Hope, sans Life, sans everything. The Comic Magazine. Fourth series 1834.

Jaques in Capel Court. ——All the world are stags! Yea, all the men and women merely jobbers! They have their brokers and their share-accounts, And one man in his time tries many lines, The end being total ruin. First, the greenhorn, Dabbling and dealing in a lucky spec; And then the prosperous seller, with his profits And joyous winning face, buying like mad, Unwilling to sell out; and then, the loser, Sighing like furnace, with a woful prospect Of the next settling day! Then the director, Full of strange schemes, and lodged at the west-end, Keeping a cab, and sudden growing rich,— Getting a bubble reputation Even in Capel Court. And then the bankrupt, With his debts’ schedule large, and no assets: By all his decent friends entirely cut,— Full of bad scrip, and fertile of fresh schemes; And so he plays his game. The sixth step sinks Into the low and herring-gutted stag, With spectacles on nose and list in hand; His youthful gains all spent, the world too wide— —Awake to be ta’en in, and his long line Of hapless creditors that idly wait And whistle for their cash. Last scene of all, That ends this sad but common history, Is—Union pauperism, and oakum picking; Sans beer, sans beef, sans tea, sans everything. Punch. November 1, 1845.

The Poetry of Steam. ——The world’s ruled by Steam, And all the men and women are its subjects: It guides their movements and their whereabouts; And this steam, in its time, plays many parts, Its acts being Seven Ages. At first, the kettle, Hissing and sputtering on a kitchen hob, And then Newcomen’s Engine, to its piston, By atmospheric pressure, giving force Imperfectly to pump; Then Watt’s condenser; More economic, with its stuffing box And double acting movement: Then a steam-boat, Full of strange smells, and cramm’d like Noah’s ark, (It, on high pressure, sudden and quick to explode) Raising up Fulton’s reputation In every body’s mouth: Then the steam horse, By Stephenson devised, on Wall’s End fed, With boiler grimed and—wheels of clumsy cut, Spurning brass knobs, and copper ornaments— And so he plays his part. The Sixth age shifts Into the war of broad and narrow gauge; Brunel on one, Hudson on t’ other side— Their several lines stretching a world too wide For the Committees, and Steam’s manly voice, That, in the kettle’s childish treble piped, Now whistles o’er the world. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is general brotherhood, and mere oblivion Of troops, of wars, of blood, and all such things. Punch, July 25, 1846.

The Seven Ages of the Republic. ——France is a stage, And all her heroes little more than players. Her Kings their exits have, and entrances; And the Republic runs its round of parts, Its acts being seven ages. First, Young France, Emeuting and plotting, e’en in the nurse’s arms; Then ouvrier out of work, casquette on head, And frowning hairy face, going, in faith, To Louis Blanc to school. Then Lamartine, Spouting away, writing a score of sonnets Unto Dame Liberty’s eyebrow; then Mobile, Clapped in strange clothes, and bearding barricades, Zealous against old friends in sudden quarrel, Taking a sight at death and devastation E’en in the cannon’s mouth; then Cavaignac, In power despotic and a state of siege, With frown severe, and beard of Algiers cut, O’er-riding Law with a soldier’s insolence— And so he plays his part. The sixth age shows Poor Liberty, with Constitution weak, Halting ’twixt Anarchy and Despotism, Her youthful bonnet rouge a world too wide For her shrunk brains, and the big boastful voice, Turning again to the old treble, pipes Louis Napoleon in. Last scene of all That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, Sans trade, sans tin, sans press, sans everything.

All the Town’s a Slide. (A Parody for the Frost.) ——All the town’s a slide, And all the men and women merely skaters. They have their slippings and their flounderings, And one man in his life has many falls: His fate having seven stages. At first, the infant, Shivering and shaking in his nurse’s arms; And then the shuffling school-boy, with his highlows And hobnailed sole and heel, cutting-out slides Instead of going to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, till with woeful tumble He and his mistress lie low. Then a soldier, Wearing odd skates, and bearding all the park; Jealous of others, sudden and quick in turning, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the deepest holes. And then the iceman In fair round hat, with a good cape on, lined With oilskin clear, and coat of formal cut, Full of ice-saws and modern instruments; And so he plays his part. The sixth stage slips Into the lean and slippery pantaloon, With icicle on nose, and stick in hand, His India-rubber shoes a world too large For his shrunk feet; and his poor trembling knees Straggling apart like childish helplessness, He tumbles on the ground! Last scene of all That ends this cold and frosty history Is a sharp wind—upsetting everyone, Sans stick, sans cloak, sans hat, sans everything. Punch 1850.

The Seven Ages of a Public Man. ——Public Life’s a stage, And all the men in office merely players: They have their characters and salaries And one man in his course plays many parts, And acts through seven ages. First the infant, High born, inheriting a coat of arms, And then the Public School-boy, with his satchel, And shining lot of fag, going by rail, Uncaringly to school; then the Collegian Boating and driving, with a comic ballad, And supercilious eyebrow. Then the Patriot Full of strong oaths, and moustached like the pard, Anxious for honour, not disposed to quarrel With any decent situation, Suffice that can one’s mouth. And then the Member, Quoting old saws and modern instances, In fair round paunch, with public dinners lined; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered Minister; With spectacles, and prose, and votes on side, His youthful views renounced, a world too wide For his shrunk wits and his once manly voice, 173 Trying in vain to hoax the people, pipes A miserable sound. Last scene of all, That ends this sad disgraceful history, Is childish Red-tapism, and mere routine: Sans heart, sans brains, sans pluck, sans everything. Punch, May, 1855.

Catalogue of the British Museum. ——All the thing’s a farce, And all the time and labour merely wasted. It has its entries and its indexes, And one man with his time plays but the fool In poring o’er the pages. First the Volume, Bulky and ponderous in the porter’s arms, And then the heavy binding, with its edges And greasy leather backs, letting it slide Gradually to the ground. And then the titles, Mixed up like hodge-podge—here a book of ballads Publish’d by Beale or Boosey. Then a quarto, Full of strange types, and letter’d all in black, Printed on vellum—ancient in type and paper, Cramming the author’s reputation Right down the student’s mouth. And then the law-book In pale brown calfskin, with gross humbug lined, With rules severe, and forms of rigid cut, Full of strange laws and musty precedents: And so this forms a part. The volume shifts Like change to clown or slipper’d pantaloon, To subjects no one knows—from side to side The eye may roll—the topics are too wide To be embraced—and the loud public voice, Turning again to childish treble, pipes And whistles for its wants. Last scene of all, That ends this strange mysterious catalogue, Is perfect uselessness and mere oblivion, Sans head—sans tail—in fact, sans everything.

The Seven Ages. By Mincing Lane Esq., ——Mincing-lane’s a stage, And all the workers there are merely players: Each plays the part his manager may choose, And in his part must mind his P.’s and Q.’s— His acts being seven ages. At first the boy, Untimely breeched in galling corduroy; His eyes wide opened, and his lower jaw Meekly depressed in reverential awe— Bound for three miserable years to do A shopboy’s drudgery without his screw, Then the meek junior, with a moonlike face, Creeping like snail unwilling to his place, Sleepy from last night’s going to the play And youthful soakings of convivial clay. And then the lover, in resplendent scarf And gorgeous pin, and boots too tight by half, Spending with her he loves in lanes—away From town—his one brief blissful holiday, Seated in cosy arbour with his lass, Pledging his love in cups of sparkling Bass. And then the Volunteer, with gun in hand, Scaring invaders from his native land, Seeking, good man, the bubble reputation In hebdomadal perambulation In quiet spots—his partner by his side Taking his youthful progeny for a ride. And then the market clerk—rotund is he; A man of substance; knowing to a T What shares are discount, premium, or par— What “mule twist” was, and what “grey shirtings” are: And so he plays his part. The next age shifts Into the book-keeper who seldom lifts His eyes from off his book—who measures time Not by the grass covered with glist’ning rime, Nor song of blackbirds, nor the budding May, Nor scent of meadows filled with new-mown hay, Nor falling dew of autumn time—yet stay, He notes the falling due of quarter-day. Last scene of all that ends this strange career Is utter friendlessness. Not one kind tear On his account philanthropists can wring; He dies sans home, sans friends, sans everything. The Hornet, January 1, 1868.

——At first the Tory, Pompous and prosing in his elbow chair; And then the doubtful Dizzyite, with suffrage, And firm belief in rates,—sneaking, like lamb, Quite patiently, to “school.” Then Cranbourne Alley, Sighing for novelty, with woeful back-glance Made at the Tory benches. Then the Liberal Full of strange whims, and reckless as a Rad; Jealous for office, sudden at wrong conclusions; Seeking the bubble alteration, E’en gainst his country’s welfare. Then the Brightite, With fair round periods, with bad logic lined; With ayes and noes aye in minority; Full of wise schemes, and wild philosophy: And so he plays his game. The sixth age shifts Into the Beales and Potter Demagogue, With banner overhead, and pole in hand; His common sense all gone,—the world too small For his bold flight;—his once persuasive voice, Turning tow’rds pot-house politicians, rants and vapours to a mob. Last scene of all, That generally ends this history, Is second Toryism, or utter lassitude;— Sans hope, sans care, sans mind, sans everything. Once a Week, June 27, 1868.

The Seven Ages of Love. Man in his day loves many times and oft, For Nature’s made him uncontent with one; He breathes a hundred vows in accents soft Ere on the earth his pilgrimage is run. First comes the baby, in his nurse’s arms, With button mouth stretched wide for pap-filled spoon; Or else with clutching fingers, eager palms, Waiting and weeping for his love—the moon. The schoolboy next, with hungry, longing gaze Fixed on the face of one of thirty years; Unversed, as yet, in guileful worldly ways, Bemoaning youth with bitter sobs and tears. Later the man, all furious in Love’s pains, Yet humbly sighing soft on bended knee; Swearing his heart out that the globe contains But one adorable and perfect she. And then the soldier, fierce in love as fight, With twirled moustache and rugged, sun-browned cheek, Claiming young Beauty as the warrior’s right, Then scorning conquest as a passing freak. The Justice next, with pockets golden lined, With money bags to lure and satyr leer; Resolved at fifty years a maid to find, As wife for two and nurse for twenty years. Sixth stage, the pantaloon, wan, shrunk, and thin, With limbs half paralysed and senses numb, Chucking the nurs’ry maid beneath the chin And mumbling nonsense with a toothless gum. Last scene of all. Blear-eyed, with shrivelled neck, Laid by, for Death to claim, upon the shelf; A fretful, peevish, crabbed, and cross-grained wreck, Loving but one thing, and that one thing—self. So wags the world! From life’s first blush of light, Through happy morning to bright afternoon, Till falling shades of evening lead to night— And love?—The last is self, the first the moon! Judy, January 19, 1881.

The Seven Ages of Woman. By a Cantankerous Old Curmudgeon. ——All the world’s a Wardrobe, And all the girls and women merely wearers: They have their fashions and their fantasies, And one she in her time wears many garments Throughout her Seven Stages. First, the baby, Befrilled and broidered, in her nurse’s arms. And then the trim-hosed schoolgirl, with her flounces And small-boy scorning face, tripping skirt-waggling, Coquettishly to school. And then the flirt, Ogling like Circe, with a business œillade Kept on her low-cut corset. Then a bride Full of strange finery, vestured like an angel, Veiled vaporously, yet vigilant of glance, Seeking the Woman’s heaven, Admiration, Even at the Altar’s steps. And then the matron, In fair rich velvet with suave satin lined, With eyes severe, and skirts of youthful cut Full of dress-saws and modish instances, To teach her girls their part. The sixth age shifts Into the grey yet gorgeous grandmamma, With gold pince-nez on nose and fan at side, Her youthful tastes still strong, and worldly wise In sumptuary law, her quavering voice Prosing of Fashion and Le Follet, pipes Of robes and bargains rare. Last scene of all, That ends the Sex’s Mode-swayed history, Is second childishness and sheer oblivion Of youth, taste, passion, all—save love of Dress! Punch, May 20, 1882.

“All the world’s a stage, &c., &c., And one man in his time tries many traps.”

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail On tricycle to school.

And then the lover. Who in scratch tandem drives a Tottie With golden hair and jet black eyebrows.

An economic funeral ends the list Sans plumes, sans mutes, sans pall, sans everything.

Then the schoolboy, quaffing his ginger-beer, Until “he well nigh bursts.”

“Then the lover, with a woful ballad, Made to his mistress’ eye-brow ’neath the subtle inspiration of the Boy.”

“Then the soldier, slaking his parched throat, Made dry by last night’s mess, with many a brandy and soda.”

“Then the justice, with fair, round belly, With good claret lined.”

“The lean and slippered pantaloon, Who, with his feet in foot-bath, sits and drinks his gruel.”

“Last drink of all, beef-tea.” I feel quite mixed after the variety.—Yours, P.M.T. The Sporting Times, May 2, 1885.

Crutch, in cosy box enshrin’d, Showers bouquets on Rosalind; Gallery is not behind In its praise of Rosalind; Common “pro’s” for years may grind, Not so gentle Rosalind. Beauty and high birth combin’d Must produce a Rosalind! Where can we an equal find To our latest Rosalind? Critics sour and critics kind Battle over Rosalind. To the charms who can be blind Of this pretty Rosalind? Streets with carriages are lined, Audiences for Rosalind, Braving chill September’s wind For the sake of Rosalind; Rank and fashion, lately dined, Flock to feast on Rosalind. But I can’t make up my mind, To accept this Rosalind! Judy, October 4, 1882.

Blow, blow thou Winter wind; Snow, too, if so inclined: I cannot change your mood. I’ll order Toddy hot And drink of it a lot— The strongest can be brewed. Heigh ho! Sing heigh ho! Away with melancholy. To grumble at the weather is nought but folly. Then heigh ho! The holly! This life is most jolly. (An interval of six hours is supposed to elapse.) Freeze! Freeze! The wind does blow! I’m “Boycotted” by the snow, I search and search in vain For cab, or bus, or train. Miles off is home—and worse, I’ve no coin in my purse! In the snow, sing heigh ho! to the green folly Of a fellow feigning to be happy or jolly. Heigh ho! ’Tis folly, by golly! To hope to be jolly! Anonymous.

A Bachelor. (After Romeo’s description of an apothecary. Act v. Scene i.) I do remember an old BACHELOR, And hereabouts he dwells—whom late I noted In suit of sables, with care worn brow, Conning his books—and meagre were his looks: Celibacy had worn him to the bone; And in his silent parlour hung a coat, The which the moth had used not less than he. Four chairs, one table, and an old hair trunk, Made up its furniture; and on his shelves A grease-clad candlestick, a broken mug, Two tablets, and a box of old cigars; Remnants of volumes, once in some repute, Were thinly scattered round, to tell the eye Of prying stranger—this man had no wife. His tatter’d elbow gap’d most piteously; And ever as he turned him round, his skin Did through his stockings peep upon the day. Noting his gloom, unto myself I said, “And if a man did covet single life, Reckless of joys that matrimony gives, Here lives a gloomy wretch would show it him In such most dismal colours, that the shrew, Or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse, Were each a heaven compared with such a life.” The Maids, Wives, and Widows Penny Magazine, October 27, 1832.

I do remember a cook’s shop— And here about it stands—him late I noted In tuck’d up sleeves, with night cap o’er his brows, Cutting up joints—pleas’d were his looks, The fatt’ning trade had cover’d well his bones, And in his reeky shop a sirloin hung, A buttock stuff’d; nice tripe, and other strings Of well spic’d sausages—and upon his board A sovereign remedy for empty stomachs, Green peas and ducks, pork, steaks, and mutton chops, Remnant of goose, pigeon-pye and plates of ham, Were amply set out to make up a show, Noting this plenty to myself I said; An’ if a man did need a dinner now, Whose dainty smell is present appetite, Here lives a greasy rogue would cater one. If I may trust the flattering truth of nose, This should be Porridge Island— Being twelve o’th’clock—the knives and forks are laid.

I do remember a young pleader, And hereabouts he dwells; whom late I noted In coat once black, with overwhelming brow, Pondering o’er cases—sallow were his looks, And midnight thought had worn him to the bone; And in his sombre chambers lay confused, Black dusty papers, “general issues” here, “Demurrers special” there—matter apt to teach That, to our noble law, justice and form Alike are dear—and o’er his shelves A beggarly account of dusty volumes— Wentworth, and Coke, and Saunders—old editions all, With a few numbers of the late reports, 177 Were thinly scattered to make up a show. Noting his little practice, thus I said: “An’ if a man would patch a rotten case, Give to transaction dark a face of snow, Here lives the lawyer that might draw the pleas, Oh! this same thought doth but forerun my need— I have a cause, and will retain him quickly, As I remember, this should be the chamber; But it not being term the door is closed.” What, ho! From The Poetical Note Book and Epigrammatic Museum; by George Wentworth, London, 1824.

I do remember a strange man, a herald— And hereabouts he dwells—whom late I noted In parti-colour’d coat like a fool’s jacket, Or morrice-dancer’s dress—musty his looks, Like to a piece of ancient shrivell’d parchment, Or an old pair of leather brogues twice turn’d; And round the dusky room he did inhabit, Whose wainscot seem’d as old as Noah’s ark, Were divers shapes of ugly, ill-formed monsters, Hung up on scutcheons like an old church aisle— A blue boar rampant, and a griffin gules, A gaping tyger, and a cat-o’-mountain, What nature never form’d, nor madman dream’d, Gorgons and hydras and chimæras dire; And straight before him lay a dusty heap Of ancient legers, books of evidence, Old blazon’d pedigrees and antique rolls, (Which made full oft the son beget the father, And give to maiden ladies fruitful issue.) Torn parish registers, probates, and testaments— From which, with cunning art and sage contrivance, He fairly culled divers pedigrees; And next, by act of transmutation rare, Did change his musty vellum into gold— For straight comes in a gaudy city youth, (Whose father, for oppression and vile cunning, Lies roaring low in Limbo lake the while,) And straight depositeth some forty guineas, And after some few words of mystic import, Of Mowbray, Howard, Vere, Plantagenet, And other necromantic terms of art, Most gravely utter’d by the smoke-dried sage, He takes, in lieu of gold, the vellum roll, With arms emblazon’d and Earl Marshal’s signet, And struts away, a well-born gentleman. Observing this, I to myself did say, “And if a man did need a coat of arms, Here lives a caitiff that would sell him one.”

Rom.— For walls and gates I do not care a farden, And so I make my way into the garden; My conduct may seem like that of a rash’un, But on this plot I’ll give vent to my passion. I met her at the ball. We danced together, ’Tis true we only talked about the weather; But then our idle eyes spoke volumes nearly; And now I know I idolize her dearly, And come what will I never can forget Earth’s brightest jewel, lovely Jewelet. Enter Juliet on balcony. Jul.— Bother the cats! They quite disturb my rest. Rom.— Now is my time. Jul.— They are getting quite a pest. Rom.— The creature basking in your beauty’s glow Is not a Thomas Cat, but Romeo. Jul.— A Montague! Rom.— Who’s aim’s your hand to claim; But as no doubt you’ll say, “What’s in an aim?” Jul.— Aimey-vous me? Rom.— My very little game. I Adore you more than Leicester did his Aimey. Wilt fly with me? My love you cannot doubt it. Jul.— Well, Romeo, I must romeonate about it. What is to-day? Rom.— Days, months, I quite forget, It may be June—I know but Julyet. I’ll take you to the Friar. Jul.— Let me see— Rom.— Why, surely you are not afraid of me? Jul.— I’ll meet you at the cell. Rom.— And cell I bring A marriage license. Jul.— Yes; also a ring. Duet,—Air, “Burlesque Galop.” Both.— The Montagues and Capulets will be in such a way, When they hear that Romeo and Juliet one fine day, Ran off and got married both together on the sly, Regardless of the hatred of each other’s family. O toodlee um, te oodleum, &c. (Juliet plays tambourine—Romeo dances a breakdown.)

Mercutio.— Here comes Romeo—poor fellow he’s mooney Sweet on Rosaline! Oh, regular spooney,— Found him this morning at the lady’s door, Waving up kisses to the second floor— Radiant with joy, as Phœbus or Aurora, Wooing with warm smiles a second Flora! And then unto his lady love he played Upon the Jewish harp a serenade; While ever and anon there came a flow Of voice with “Sweep!” and then of “Milk below!” Romeo enters in a melancholy mood. Mercu.— His bosom swells, the heavy sighs rise on it; The man’s in love—that’s about the size on it. Romeo. (taking out photograph and kissing it)— Sweet Rosaline! Nor yet as sweet by half As represented in this photograph. The sun was envious of those dainty hands— So fist-like has he drawn them—and he brands The sweetest smile that ever heart did win, In likeness of a silly sort of grin! Mercu. (looking over his shoulder)— Sixpence in frame complete, that’s about it. Romeo.— Now there you’re wrong, my friend; perhaps you doubt it? But fourpence is the figure now-a-days— The walks of art are now but common ways. (Kisses photograph and sighs.) Mercu.— Good Romeo, are you ill? Romeo.— Yes, I’m queer. Mercu.— Where do you feel it? Romeo. (laying hand on heart) Oh! I feel it here. Mercu.— Oh! you are in love—over head and ears— But why so sad? Your eyes are set with tears, When you should smile. Romeo.— Rosy! Mercu.— Pooh! forget her. You’ll see some other girl you’ll like much better. Romeo.— I’ve dreamt a dream—Oh! ’twas a horrid dream! Mercu.— Queen Mab’s been with your worship, it would seem. She is the very deuce, and goes to work By aid of pickled salmon and roast pork; Sits on the stomach of an Alderman; O’er every drowsy sense does hold her ban. Her waggon-spokes of grill’d and devilled bones, Her wheels give out a constant sound of groans; Her whip, a knotted lash of champagne wires; Her chariot, a stew-pan wrapped in fires; Her shouts are pepper, and her oaths are spice; She’s something nasty, after something nice. In fact, my buck, to speak out plain and fair, What you’ve been suffering from is the nightmare!

Mercutio.— I see it’s Shakespeare. He’s angry with us. All.— Pray what have we done? Romeo.— His noble tragedy we’ve turned to fun; And he don’t like it. All.— Oh, what shall we do? Apothecary.— Some of you speak to him. Romeo, you Are the hero here, face it out—dare him, Soften him over a bit.—you know—square him! Romeo. (going up to him)— I’ll try. Immortal bard—illustrious Swan of Avon, Towards you, we own, we have not been behavin’, With that respect which we should like to pay, But the fact is, if we essayed your play, As you did write it—the boxes and the pit Would say we could not act the play a bit. And so that with us, not at us they may laugh, We’ve winnowed your fine corn into chaff. (Shakespeare bows.) Nurse. (going up)— Another thing you must remember, Poet, You wrote burlesques yourself, and well you know it. In “The Midsummer Night’s Dream.” (Shakespeare disappears.)