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.

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

(Going.)

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 ar't thou quite my Chancellor.
Brougham.-I am thine own for ever.

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A SCENE FROM OTHELLO.
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS.

Othello (on this occasion) by Mr. Punch.

Exeunt.

The Lamp (one of the lights of the age) by Lord John Russell.

Enter OTHELLO (PUNCH) taking the LAMP (LORD JOHN
RUSSELL) in his hand.

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.

Othello (PUNCH) sits down in a desponding attitude, and looking at the Lamp (LORD JOHN RUSSELL) he naturally falls asleep.

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.

"OTHELLO TRAVESTIE, an operatic Burlesque Burletta," by Maurice G. Dowling, Esq., was first produced at the Liver Theatre, Liverpool, March, 1834, and was afterwards performed at the Strand Theatre, London.

This now reads as a very dull and stupid burlesque, in which the only approach at fun is obtained from causing Othello to speak, and act, like a negro melodist. The songs introduced are mostly founded on the Ethiopian melodies then popular, and there are no passages, of any merit, parodying the original tragedy.

This burlesque can still be obtained from Mr. Samuel French, 89, Strand, London.

There was a much earlier "Othello Travestie," published in 1813, of which details are wanting.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

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.

This song also occurs in Act V. Scene 2, of Beaumont and Fletcher's Bloody Brother, with the following additional stanza :

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.

:0:

TAKE, O, take that bill away,

That, alas! long since was due! Call again some other day,

When the trees do bud anewMaybe, dimly distant spring Some financial change will bring.

-:0:

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.

:0:

In 1879 a Mr. Tracy Turnerelli acquired a certain notoriety in consequence of having organized a subscription to purchase a golden laurel wreath to be presented to Lord Beaconsfield. The subscription was entitled "The People's Tribute," and 52800 pennies were collected, the wreath was made and publicly exhibited, when, to the great disgust of Mr. Tracy Turnerelli, the Prime Minister declined the gift. Lord Beaconsfield's reasons were given in the following letter, which cleverly exposes the self-seeking motives of the organiser of this "Tribute ":

"10, Downing-street, Whitehall, June 16, 1879.-Sir,Lord Beaconsfield desires me to inform you that he has received and carefully considered your letter of the 8th inst., in which you ask him to name a day for the presentation of a laurel wreath procured by the contributions of upwards of 50,000 of the people, which have been collected,

according to your statement, with immense labour and never-yet-exampled efforts.' His lordship has, moreover, had before him the correspondence which during the last five years you have addressed to him, and he notices especially your complaints that your services have received no recognition at the hands of the leaders of the Conservative party, and the expression of your hope that sooner or later they will meet with reward. Although Lord Beaconsfield would fully appreciate and value a spontaneous gift from his fellow-subjects belonging to a class in which he has ever taken the warmest interest, he cannot but feel that, being himself intimately connected with honours and rewards, he is precluded by the spirit in which you have previously addressed him from accepting a gift thus originated, and proffered in a manner which he cannot deem satisfactory.-I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, ALGERNON TURNOR.

Tracy Turnerelli, Esq."

The golden wreath was publicly exhibited at the Crystal Palace, and afterwards at Madame Tussaud's Exhibition.

·:0

"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.

Bits of Beaconsfield, a New Series of Disraeli's Curiosities of
Literature, (Abel Heywood & Son, Manchester.)

To which Turnerelli is supposed to have replied in the following parody of Ben Jonson :

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.

RICHARD THE THIRD.
АСТ І.

SCENE I. London. A street.
Enter RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester, solus.
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,

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.

This speech was chosen as the original for a parody competition in The World, in September, 1879, the subject to be treated being "The Return of Lord Chelmsford and other officers from Zululand."

FIRST PRIZE.

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 ambus-
cade-

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.

SECOND PRIZE.

SCENE: Zululand, the Bush. Enter CETEWAYO, with an English newspaper.

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.

:0:

"Kinge Richard ye Third, or ye Battel of Bosworth Field; a merry mysterie," in one act, by Charles Selby, was produced at the Strand Theatre, on February 26, 1844. This burlesque can be obtained from Mr. Samuel French, 89, Strand, London.

A much more ambitious burlesque of the same tragedy was produced at the New Royalty Theatre,

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 falis, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

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,
*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.

KING HENRY VIII.

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

MR. GLADSTONE AND HIS OLD CHINA.

The following, which purports to be a meditation of our junior member for Greenwich on his past career, called forth by the recent sale of his Pictures and Old China, was according to the Morning Advertiser, picked up in the sale room at Christie's, at the close of Mr. Gladstone's sale on Saturday last. Our spirited contemporary admits that the only evidence as to its authorship is internal, and is inclined to think it by no means reliable, but this is a matter respecting which all who read it are at liberty to form their own opinion:

"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,

*Mrs. Bateman.