A Book of Burlesque: Sketches of English Stage Travestie and Parody

All bones but yours will rattle when I sayI am the sea serpent from America.Mayhap you've heard that I've been round the world;I guess I'm round it now, mister, twice curled…Of all the monsters through the deep that splash,I'm "number one" to all immortal smash.When I lie down, and would my length unroll,There ar'n't half room enough 'twixt pole and pole.In short, I grow so long that I've a notionI must be measured soon for a new ocean.

The exaggeration which is so characteristic of American humour is here happily satirised. In another passage, Perseus, addressing himself to Andromeda, sings a neatly turned parody of "We met – 'twas in a Crowd": —

We met! 'twas at the ball,Upon last Easter Monday;I press'd you to be mine,And you said, "Perhaps, one day."I danced with you the wholeOf that night, and you only;Ah, ne'er "cavalier seul"Felt more wretched and lonely.For when I squeezed your hand,As we turned one another,You frown'd and said, "Have done!Or I'll speak to my mother!"They called the Spanish dance,And we flew through it fleetly —'Twas o'er – I could not breathe,For you'd blown me completely.I led you to a seatFar away from the dancers;Quadrilles again began,They were playing "the Lancers";Again I squeezed your hand,And my anguish to smotherYou smiled, and said, "Dear Sir,You may speak to my mother."

In 1861 Perseus and Andromeda reappeared upon the comic stage at the instance of William Brough, who made them the hero and heroine of a burlesque at the St. James's.

The story of Telemachus was the subject which engaged the attention of Planché immediately after he had done with Perseus. Fénelon's tale had become extremely familiar to the British schoolboy, who at that time was not thought to have "grounded" himself sufficiently in French until he had read the narrative in the original. Hence Planché's "Telemachus, or the Island of Calypso,"10 concerning which the author took credit to himself once more for having "preserved the well-known plot with the most reverential fidelity." Ten years later the same subject was treated in the "Telemachus" of Stirling Coyne, played at the Adelphi with Miss Woolgar in the title-part, Wright as Calypso (a ballet-dancer!) and Paul Bedford as the hero's Mentor or "tor-Mentor." In 1863 the story of the parents of Telemachus proved attractive to Mr. Burnand, whose "Patient Penelope" made her curtsey at the Strand, to be followed at the St. James's, two years later, by the same writer's "Ulysses."

Still tracing the course of Planché's labours in burlesque, we come next to the production, at the Haymarket in 1845, of "The Golden Fleece" – perhaps, on the whole, the most delightful of the series. In this ingenious and brilliant piece, the two parts of which were entitled respectively "Jason in Colchis" and "Medea in Corinth," Planché had taken the narrative of Apollonius Rhodius and the tragedy of Euripides, and had built upon them a composition in which he sought less to cast ridicule upon the legends selected than to travestie what he called "the modus operandi of the classical period, which really illustrates the old proverbial observation that there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous." He brought again upon the stage the ancient Chorus, incarnated in a single person, who explained the action of the piece as it went on, not hesitating even to interrupt it when the humorous opportunity occurred. Charles Mathews undertook the part, heralded by a jocose announcement on the "bills" to the effect that "The lessee has, regardless of expense, engaged Mr. Charles Mathews to represent the whole body of the chorus, rendering at least fifty-nine male voices entirely unnecessary." In the opening scene, the Chorus thus described his functions: —

Friends, countrymen, lovers, first listen to me:I'm the Chorus; whatever you hear or you seeThat you don't understand, I shall rise to explain —It's a famous old fashion that's come up again,And will be of great service to many fine playsThat nobody can understand nowadays;And think what a blessing if found intervening,When the author himself scarcely knows his own meaning.You may reap from it, too, an advantage still further:When an actor is bent upon marriage or murther,To the Chorus his scheme he in confidence mentions,'Stead of telling the pit all his secret intentions;A wondrous improvement you all will admit,And the secret is just as well heard by the pit.Verbum sat.– To the wise I'll not put one more word in,Or instead of a Chorus, they'll think me a burden.

Later in the piece, announcing the approach of King Æetes (Bland), the Chorus interposed with: —

Æetes comes, looking as black as thunder,And when you hear the cause you'll say "No wonder";For Jason, aided by Medea's spell,Has done the trick, and done the King as well.You'll think, perhaps, you should have seen him do it,But 't isn't classical – you'll hear, not view it.Whatever taxed their talents or their means,These sly old Grecians did behind the scenes;So, fired with their example, boldly weBeg you'll suppose whate'er you wish to see.

Elsewhere occurred this famous bit of badinage between King and Chorus: —

Chorus. Be calm, great King – 'tis destiny's decree.Æetes. How dare you talk of destiny to me!What right have you with such advice to bore us?Chorus. Sir, I'm the Chorus.Æetes.Sir, you're indecorous.

In the course of the piece Mathews sang, among other things, an excellent ditty, to the tune of "The Tight Little Island": —

'Twas very ungrateful, you'll say, sir,But, alas! of the world it's the way, sir,When all a friend can, you have done for a man,He'll cut you quite dead the next day, sir.

But perhaps the most successful parody in "The Golden Fleece" was that on "The Fine Old English Gentleman," assigned to Mme. Vestris as Medea. This is worth quoting in full: —

I'll tell you a sad tale of the life I've been led of late,By the false Bœotian Boatswain, of whom I am the mate:Who quite forgets the time when I pitied his hard fateAnd he swore eternal constancy by all his gods so great;Like a fine young Grecian gentleman,One of the classic time!Now he lives in a fine lodging, in the palace over there,Whilst I and his poor children are poked in a back two-pair;And though he knows I've scarcely got a second gown to wear,He squanders on another woman every farthing he's got to spare,Like a false young Grecian gentleman,One of the classic time.He leaves me to darn his stockings, and mope in the house all day,Whilst he treats her to see "Antigone," with a box at the Grecian play,Then goes off to sup with Corinthian Tom, or whoever he meets by the way,And staggers home in a state of beer, like (I'm quite ashamed to say)A fine young Grecian gentleman,One of the classic time.Then his head aches all the next day, and he calls the children a plague and a curse,And makes a jest of my misery, and says, "I took him for better or worse";And if I venture to grumble, he talks, as a matter of course,Of going to Modern Athens, and getting a Scotch divorce!Like a base young Grecian gentleman,One of the classic time.

"Medea," it will be remembered, was the title and subject of a burlesque by Robert Brough, brought out at the Olympic in 1856, with Robson in the title-part, Emery as Creon (King of Corinth), and Julia St. George as Jason. Medea ("the best of mothers, with a brute of a husband," as the sub-title has it) was one of Robson's most impressive rôles, being charged at more than one point (notably in the closing scene, which was played by all the characters in serious fashion) with real tragic intensity. In the lighter vein were such episodes as the duet with Jason (to the air of "Robinson Crusoe"), which I quote as illustrative of the neatness and humour with which Brough constructed such trifles: —

Medea. I have done for this manAll that tenderness can,I have followed him half the world through, sir;I've not seen him this year,And the first thing I hearIs "he's going to marry Creusa."Going to marry Creusa,Going to marry Creusa,Ting a ting ting!Ting a ting ting!All I can say, sir, is, do, sir.Jason. If you'll take my advice,You'll pack up in a trice,Nor of time to pack off be a loser;For the popular wrathWill be likely to froth'Gainst a foe to myself or Creusa.I am going to marry Creusa,And, believe me, the best thing for you's aFast ship to bespeak,And some desert isle seek,Like a sort of she Robinson Cruiser.

The last of Planché's classical burlesques was produced at the Lyceum in 1848. It was on the subject of "Theseus and Ariadne," and was fortunate in the services of Charles Mathews as Dædalus. In this character Mathews sang a song which Planché had written for private performance and had brought "down to date" for the occasion. It is one of the happiest mélanges ever put together, beginning —

I'm still in a flutter – I scarcely can utterThe words to my tongue that come dancing – come dancing;I've had such a dream that I'm sure it must seemTo incredulous ears like romancing – romancing.No doubt it was brought on by that Madame Wharton,Who muddled me quite with her models – her models;Or Madame Tussaud, who in waxwork can showOf all possible people the noddles – the noddles.

The only song, of the kind, worthy to compare with this, is the description of the Heavy Dragoon sung by Colonel Calverly in the "Patience" of Mr. Gilbert, who, as a master of light badinage and intricate rhythm and rhyme, is the lineal descendant of the author of "Theseus and Ariadne."

After Planché, the most notable of the deceased writers of "classical" burlesque is undoubtedly Francis Talfourd. Planché's knowledge of the Greek mythology and drama was admittedly derived from translations and from dictionaries; Talfourd was a university man, and had an at-first-hand acquaintance with the masterpieces which he so skilfully travestied. The marks of this are visible in all his "classical" pieces, and notably in the first of them – "Alcestis, the Original Strong-minded Woman, being a most Shameless Misinterpretation of the Greek drama of Euripides." This was played at the Strand in 1850. The "argument" prefixed to it is an excellent bit of punning: —

Admetus, being due to Death, and as such totally unprepared to take himself up, is about to betake himself down, according to previous arrangement, when Orcus, who had meanwhile been trying his mean wiles on Alcestis (Admetus' very much better half), expresses himself willing to receive her as a substitute; her husband, friends, and relations not feeling quite so disposed to be disposed of. Alcestis, however, consents, packs up her traps, and then obligingly goes packing down those of Orcus. At this melancholy juncture, Hercules chances to be passing through Thessaly, on his return from his provincial engagements, and, having a knack of turning up a trump at a rub, plays his club so judiciously as to retake the queen, in spite of the deuce, and restores her to her family and friends.

In the dialogue of "Alcestis" we have such quips as these: —

E'en like a detonator down he goesTo pay the debt o' natur which he owes.To curb my rising love I idly tries,I eyes the idol that I idolise!I may be captivating; but Death, stronger,Will not be kept-a-vaiting any longer.I'd no time to aggravate Mamma,Or make my Pa my foe by a faux pas!

In one place Alcestis, apropos of the marriage which is being forced upon her, cries bitterly: —

Why was I ever saddled with this bridal?

Phædra sings a parody on "I'm afloat, I'm afloat!": —

I'm a flirt, I'm a flirt, yet on thirty's bright side,And numbers have offer'd to make me their bride;Yet, though suitors don't flag in attention to me,I'm a flirt, I'm a flirt, and my hand is yet free!

In 1851 came "Thetis and Peleus," in which Talfourd had a collaborator. In 1857 he produced, at the Haymarket, "Atalanta, or the Three Golden Apples," inserting in the "bill" a comic note to the effect that "Lest he should be accused of murdering a good subject, the Author begs to state that it was Foun' Ded from unknown causes many years ago." Miss Oliver was the Atalanta, and Miss Wilton the Cupid. Among the other characters is Mississarris, Atalanta's duenna, "the Guard of the Old Greek Stage, with, in this instance, an eye to the Males, subsequently attached to the old Coach, Paidagogos," played by Compton. One of the cleverest scenes in the piece is designed and written in parody of the balcony scene in "Romeo and Juliet." Hippomenes, the hero, is seen climbing "over the garden wall," guitar in hand. Descending, he soliloquises: —

He jests at scars who ne'er in climbing hit uponA place with spikes and broken glass to sit upon.But soft, a light! – where lights are there's a liver.'Tis she! I'll try a gentle hint to give herUpon my mandoline, though I'm afraidI'm somewhat too hoarse for a serenade.This night air is too musical by far,And on my chest has struck a light catarrh…Ah, see! The window opens – it is she,More fair than ever in her robe de nuit.(Atalanta appears on balcony above.)She speaks – yet nothing says! She's not to blame,Members of Parliament do much the same.Her mouth rests on her hand – I'm not aboveWishing I were upon that hand a glove.Gladly the storms of Poverty I'd weather,So we might live from hand to mouth together!

Elsewhere Hippomenes delivers himself of a superexcellent pun. Some one says to him, referring to his studies, – "But think of your degree"; to which he replies: —

I do – and see'Tis a degree too far-in-height for me.

After "Atalanta"11 came Talfourd's "Pluto and Proserpine, or the Belle and the Pomegranate," played at the Haymarket in 1858, and his "Electra in an Electric Light," performed at the Haymarket the year following. In "Pluto and Proserpine," as in his other pieces, the original myth is followed closely. One passage supplies a happy parody of the famous "palace-lifting-to-eternal-summer" speech in "The Lady of Lyons." Pluto has appeared to Proserpine as a young man, and has laid siege to her heart in proper form. He is careful not to disclose his identity. At last Proserpine says: —

But I must know at least, sir, where you lodge.Pluto (aside). I'll try the popular Claude Melnotte dodge.(Walks her across the stage, as Claude does Pauline.)If, therefore, dearest, you would have me paintMy residence exactly (aside) as it ain't,(Aloud) I would entreat you, Proserpine, to come whereA palace lifting to eternal – somewhere —Its marble halls invites us.Proserp. By-the-bye,Where is this place?Pluto (embarrassed). In the Isle of Skye.Thy days all cloudless sunshine shall remain,For on our pleasure we will ne'er draw rein;At noon we'd sit beneath the vine-arched bowers,And, losing all our calculating powers,Think days but minutes – reckoning time by ours;Darkness shall be at once with light replaced,When my hand lights on that light taper waist;Our friends shall all true constant lovers be(So we should not be bored with company);Love's Entertainments only would we seek,And, sending up to Mudie's once a week,No tales that were not Lover's we'd bespeak,No sentiments in which we were not sharers(Think what a lot of rubbish that would spare us)…Dost like the picture, love, or are you bored?Proserp. Beautiful!Pluto (aside).'Tis a copy after Claude.

"Pluto and Proserpine" has the usual supply of puns, as in the following couplet: —

Diana. You never weigh a word, dear, you're so wild.Proserp. You used to call me such a wayward child.

But Talfourd, like Planché, could rise above mere jeux d'esprit, and furnish, when necessary, bits of persiflage which deserve to linger in the memory. Thus, in one of the scenes, Pluto addresses Cerberus in a fashion intended to suggest Launce's colloquy with his dog in "The Two Gentlemen of Verona": —

You've yet to learn the notions of propriety,Observed by dogs in upper-air society;So I'll exhibit in a bird's eye viewTh' ordeal well-bred puppies must go through.Your thoughts you show too openly – on earthThey oft are saddest who display most mirth;You must by no means growl to mark resentment,Or wag your tail in token of contentment;When most you're doing wrong, be most polite,And ne'er your teeth show less than when you bite,So may you still enjoy, when youth is past,The sunshine of your dog-days to the last.

I have already referred to three classical burlesques by H. J. Byron. A fourth exists in the "original classical pastoral" called "Pan," which first saw the light at the Adelphi in 1865. Pan, it may be recorded, was impersonated by Mr. J. L. Toole. He had a good deal to say, and much of it was in the form of jeux de mots. Take, for example, the passage in which Pan discovers that Syrinx, whom he loves, is in love with Narcissus. He calls down thunder from the skies; and then follows this tirade: —

Narcissus. What means this sudden dreadful change, I wonder?Pan. It means, great Pan is outraged!Omnes. Pan!Pan. Ah, Pan!Beware his hate and jealousy, young man.Blight shall o'erwhelm ye! See, your native cornTurns into ashes with my withering scorn.Your wheat shall shrink and shrivel, every sheaf;Your cattle swell the cattlelogue of grief;With murrain all your sheep rot in their pens,The pip shall finish all your cocks and hens;Dry rot shall spoil your flails, your ploughs, and harrows,Break up your waggons; even your wheel-barrowsShall come to woe.Your land shall grow so hard, in vain you tills.Like lazy volunteers, with weakish wills,It will object to being bored by drills.Your turnip-tops shan't spring up from the roots,Your rye shall grow awry, your corn shan't shoot,Your peas, towards which the Arcadian feeder leans,Become things of the past, and all turn beans,Ha, ha! the prospect cuts you to the core,Probes, punctures, penetrates. – Pour, torrents, pour!Descend, ye hailstones, bumpers, thumpers, fizzers;It cuts you like a knife, doesn't it, Nar-scissors?

This is a very fair specimen of Byron's rather careless method; and another is at hand in the following lines, which are spoken after the Carian captain has shown to Pan a jar of wine: —

Captain. That's wine.Pan. What's wine?Captain.A fluid very rare;It's unknown here; we bring it from afar;Don't speak a word of thanks – there, hold your jar…Pan. The jar's a most uncommon sort of shape,(Smells it) Oh, oh! may I be shot if it ain't grape![Tastes it, and smacks his lips.Gollopshus! (drinks). More gollopshus than the first!It quenches, yet somehow increases, thirst.(Drinks) Talk about nectar. These celestial fellersHave no such drink as this stuff in their cellars.I must bid Ganymede to earth to fly —Ganymede, brin-g an immed-iate supply.[Drinks, and becomes gradually elevated – hiccups.Nectar celestial drink's supposed to be;It's called divine – this is de vine for me!(Sings) We'll drown it in the bowl! (Staggers) I see two bottles!I only wish I'd got a pair of throttles!My, everything's in two! As for that there tree,It was a single tree, it's now a pair tree.That bay I thought Arcadian – but, I say,It seems to me, my friend, you're Dublin bay.Fact, 'tis a pair of bays. The earth seems reeling,While this is still so gently o'er me stealing.

To the burlesques by William Brough already mentioned may be added "Endymion, or the Naughty Boy who cried for the Moon" (St. James's, 1860), and "Pygmalion, or the Statue Fair" (Strand, 1867). The former,12 of course, has to do with the fabled fondness of Diana for Endymion, and vice versâ. The goddess sees the youth lying asleep upon Mount Latmos, and, descending, kisses him: -

Strange weakness – thus my beams so bright to dim!I should be more myself – not beam o'er him.The gods all mock my silvery splendour paling;Not silvery, but irony, their railing.Paling and railing! – what dread fears that calls up,Their bitter raillery suggesting All's up!

Before Endymion has seen Diana, he is asked by Actæon whether he is in love; to which he replies: -

Oh, no! We men of fashionHave long ago forsworn the tender passion.We can't afford it.Actæ. Why not?Endym. Well, a wifeMay suit folks in the lower walks of life;But in our station, what girls seek in marriageIs not a walk in life; – they want a carriage.Then, what with dress and crinoline extensive,The sex which should be dear becomes expensive.Once hearts were trumps; – that suit no more we follow;Since a good suit of diamonds beats them hollow.

Here he drops into a parody of "Our Hearts are not our Own to Give": —

Our hearts we've not alone to give,When we to wed incline;In lowly cots on love to live,In poetry sounds fine.But folks to live on love have ceased;Our hearts when we'd bestow,Some hundreds sterling, at the least,Should with the fond hearts go.

When, again, Actæon asks Endymion whether he ever shoots, he replies, "No, I don't care about it": —

Actæ. Not care for shooting, man? What's life without it?All nature shoots. Say, what's the earliest thingBoys learn at school? Why, shooting in the ring.The seed you sow must shoot before it grows;We feel the very corns shoot on our toes.We shoot our bolts, our game, our foes – what not?We're told where even rubbish may be shot.The stars shoot in the sky – nay, I've heard say,Folks sometimes shoot the moon on quarter-day.

Among the personæ in the piece is Pan, whom we find addressing the fauns in this punning style: —

Oh long-ear'd, but short-sighted fauns, desist;To the great Pan, ye little pitchers, list;Pan knows a thing or two. In point of fact,He's a deep Pan – and anything but cracked.A perfect oracle Pan deems himself; heIs earthenwarish – so, of course, is delfy.Trust, then, to Pan your troubles to remove;A warming-Pan he'll to your courage prove.A prophet, he foresees the ills you'd fear;So for them all you have your Pan-a-seer.

In "Pygmalion"13 we are asked to suppose that Venus is indignant with the sculptor for his lack of susceptibility to female charms. Cupid therefore undertakes to punish him by making him fall in love with his new statue, Galatea. To this statue Venus, at Pygmalion's request, gives life; but she withholds the power of loving. Galatea, therefore, is for ever slighting the sculptor's affection. Here is the opening of their first interview, which the curious may compare with the similar situation in Mr. Gilbert's "Pygmalion and Galatea: " —

Pygmal. My beautiful – my own! (embracing her).Statue.Oh! don't, sir, please;I'm sure I'm much too soft to stand a squeeze.Pygmal. Too soft! What mean you?Statue.Nay, I hardly know.I was so firm and hard an hour ago;Suddenly I grew soft —Pygmal.Nay, speak no farder.You're getting softer but renews my (h)ardour;Unrivalled maid!Statue. You rivals talk about,Who've done your best yourself to cut me out;With chisel – mallet – sir, 'tis my conviction,Your mallet ought to have my mallet-diction.Pygmal. Your sculptor, amorous, implores you madly.Statue. Yes! sculptors (h)ammer-us poor statues sadly;Yet I ne'er felt it till an hour ago;I stood, heigho! there in your stud-i-o,Within a niche!Pygmal.Speak on, oh form bewitching!Statue. Standing the niche-in, straight I felt an itching;Throughout my frame a feeling seemed to tingle,Bade me go forth with human kind to mingle.Pygmal. Oh, joy! 'twas life! and life you must go through with me.Statue. Well, having made me, what d'ye mean to do with me?Of course I can't disparage what you've done;But say, can I dis parish claim upon?Or must I trust of casual wards the mercy?Have I a settlement, or vice versy?Pygmal. Come to my arms!Statue. Nay, as the matter stands,It's not your arms – I'm left upon your hands.What's to be done with me? I never soughtInto a human figure to be wrought.You're great at figures; I, a wretched sad stone,Know nought of figures – I'm far from a Glad-stone!

In the end, Psyche infuses soul into Galatea, and she and the sculptor understand each other.

In 1883 Mr. H. P. Stephens submitted to Gaiety audiences a one-act piece which he called "Galatea, or Pygmalion Re-versed." In this Galatea was the sculptor, and Pygmalion the statue; and with Miss Farren as the former, and Mr. Edward Terry as the latter, the result was eminently laughable. Cynisca, by the way, was turned into a man (Cyniscos), and was played by Elton.