  "CLASSICAL" BURLESQUE. PlanchÉ was not only the founder of modern burlesque: he was the originator, in particular, of that form of travestie which is commonly described as "classical"—which deals with the characteristics and adventures of the gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines, of the Greek and Latin mythology and fable. It is true that comic pieces on classical subjects had been played in England before PlanchÉ brought out, at the Olympic, his "Olympic Revels" The gods and goddesses are presented in "Midas" in a light more or less ludicrous, and the dialogue, songs, and Prometheus and Pandora, I may note, figured later—in 1865—as the leading personages in Mr. Reece's "Prometheus, or the Man on the Rock," "Those steeds of yours will burn my house some day. Fine animals." "That leader came from Sestos; Stands fire well, and so he counts as best 'os." "What! don't you think me handsome?" "Not very. You've got red hair!" "Well, that's hair-red-itary." "Why, darn your impudence!" "There, stop your clatter. With all your darning you'll not mend the matter." "A couch that's made 'midst buttercups, he's shy on; The verdant sward how could a dandy lie on?" "You jeer at Pallas 'cos she's strict and staid. With all your railing you'll need Pallas' aid!" PlanchÉ's "Olympic Revels" proved so brilliantly successful that he was encouraged to follow it up, at the end of the year, with a companion composition—"Olympic Devils, or Orpheus and Eurydice." In this work, James Bland, the son of the lady who "created" PlanchÉ's Coquetinda, made his first appearance in burlesque, and among the female Bacchantes who took part in the groupings was a clever young girl, named Leonora Pincott, who was destined one day to be a great public favourite as "Mrs. Alfred Wigan." In "Olympic Devils" PlanchÉ's style is seen to excellent effect. Note, as an instance, the remarks addressed by Minos, Lord Low Chancellor, to the Fates:— I vow you Fates are most industrious spinsters! Miss Clotho there—man's destiny beginning— Life's thread at tea, like a tee-totum spinning. And then Miss Lachesis that same thread measures, Taking great pains, but giving little pleasures. Last comes Miss Atropos, her part fulfilling, And cuts poor mortals off without a shilling. The saddest sister of the fatal three, Daughter, indeed, of shear necessity! Plying her awful task with due decorum, A never-ceasing game of "snip-snap-snorum"! For help, alas! man pleads to her in vain— Her motto's "Cut and never come again." Elsewhere Orpheus says to Eurydice:— I am a lunatic for lack of thee! Mad as a March hare—oh, ma chÈre amie! But PlanchÉ had a higher wit than that of punning. His satire and sarcasm have an agreeable, because not too pungent, cynicism—as in such little scraps of song as this (following upon the scene in which Orpheus, hearing that his wife is flirting with Pluto, cannot resist looking back at her and thus consigning her again to Pluto's tender mercies):— Orpheus. I have looked back—in your snare I am caught, sir— Pluto, thou'st cut a fond pair to the core! Oh, have I come all this way to be taught, sir, That folks who would thrive must keep looking before? Euryd. You have looked back—in the snare you are caught, sir— They who cheat him, faith, have none to cheat more! A man of the world—have you yet to be taught, sir, When your wife flirts behind you, to look straight before? In after years H. J. Byron wrote two burlesques on the legend of Orpheus and his wife, both of them produced at the Strand Theatre, PlanchÉ's third classical burlesque was "The Paphian Bower, or Venus and Adonis," in which Benjamin Webster Of all the swains that are so smart, I dearly love Adonis; And pit-a-pat will go my heart, Till he bone of my bone is. No buckskin'd beau of Melton Mow- bray rides so capitÀlly. Oh, he's the darling of my heart, And he hunts in our valley! Jupiter and the neighbours all Make game of me and Doney; But, notwithstanding, I with him Contemplate matrimony. For he can play on the cornet, And sing most musically; And not a Duke in all the land Can beat him at "Aunt Sally." Venus and Adonis have always been great favourites with the producers of travestie. Among those who have made them the central figures of burlesque are Mr. Burnand, whose work was brought out in 1864, and Mr. Edward Rose, whose "Venus," written in collaboration with the Mr. Augustus Harris, and first performed at the Royalty in 1879 (with Miss Nelly Bromley as the heroine), was re-written for revival, and finally taken as the foundation of a third production in 1880. In "The Deep, Deep Sea," brought out in 1833, PlanchÉ selected as the basis of his work the story of Perseus and Andromeda. He treated it with his usual reverence for the original legend. He represented Juno and the Nereids Mighty monarch, stir your stumps as if Old Nick were following: A serpent with an awful twist has landed on your shore; Our gallant soldiers, guns and all, by regiments he's swallowing; And munching up musicians and composers by the score! Of counsel learned in the law but brief work he is making— Apothecaries just as they were pills, sir, he is taking; He snaps the parson right in two, as well as his oration; And ere the beadle bolts the door, he bolts the congregation! Mighty monarch, stir your stumps, for court and caravansary Are emptied of inhabitants all crazy with affright; The monster he is longer far than any suit in Chancery, And beats the Court of Aldermen, by chalks, for appetite! The Serpent, when he arrives, introduces himself to the king in an engaging fashion:— All bones but yours will rattle when I say I 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 notion I 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 whole Of 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 seat Far away from the dancers; Quadrilles again began, They were playing "the Lancers"; Again I squeezed your hand, And my anguish to smother You 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," 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 Friends, countrymen, lovers, first listen to me: I'm the Chorus; whatever you hear or you see That 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 plays That 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 we Beg you'll suppose whate'er you wish to see. Elsewhere occurred this famous bit of badinage between King and Chorus:—
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 Boeotian Boatswain, of whom I am the mate: Who quite forgets the time when I pitied his hard fate And 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"; 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 man All that tenderness can, I have followed him half the world through, sir; I've not seen him this year, And the first thing I hear Is "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 wrath Will be likely to froth 'Gainst a foe to myself or Creusa. And, believe me, the best thing for you's a Fast 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 utter The words to my tongue that come dancing—come dancing; I've had such a dream that I'm sure it must seem To 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 show Of 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
In the dialogue of "Alcestis" we have such quips as these:— E'en like a detonator down he goes To 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 upon A 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 her Upon my mandoline, though I'm afraid I'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 above Wishing 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" 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 paint My residence exactly (aside) as it ain't, (Aloud) I would entreat you, Proserpine, to come where A 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 view Th' ordeal well-bred puppies must go through. They 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 corn Turns 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-barrows Shall 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, 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 fellers Have 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 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 fashion Have long ago forsworn the tender passion. We can't afford it. ActÆ. Why not? Endym. Well, a wife May suit folks in the lower walks of life; But in our station, what girls seek in marriage Is 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 thing Boys 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; he Is 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" 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 sought Into 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. Two mythological burlesques stand to the credit of Gilbert Abbott a'Beckett—"The Son of the Sun, or the Fate of Phaeton," played at the Fitzroy Theatre so long ago as 1834; and "The Three Graces," a two-act piece, seen at the Princess's in 1843, with Oxberry, Wright, and Paul Bedford in the cast. Both of these travesties are very smoothly and gracefully written, with fewer puns than the author afterwards permitted himself. "The Three Graces," moreover, is not very prolific in contemporary allusion; though here and there, as in the following passage, between the heroines—Aglaia, Thalia, and Euphrosyne—there is some gentle satire:— In "The Son of the Sun" there is an episode which helps to illustrate the condition of the drama in London at that period (1834). Apollo is questioning the Muses who have just returned from London to Olympus:— Apol. Euterpe, Music's Muse, I understand That you had lodgings somewhere in the Strand. Eut. Oh! the Lyceum! Yes; I had a bout of it For a short time, until they burnt me out of it. Apol. Melpomene, Thalia,—still remain Your temples, I suppose, near Drury Lane? Thal. Our temples! Yes; as usual they stand, Extensively superb, and coldly grand. But, oh! the worship's wholly chang'd! Ah me! it is A cruel thing—they've turn'd out us poor deities. Are in the clutches of a noisy soul With Madame Melodrama for her name. Apol. That's downright usurpation. All. Shame! oh, shame! Thal. And as for me, my place—a pretty pass!— Is taken by a vulgar thing, called Farce. Apol. But where is Shakspeare? Thal.Bless me, don't you know? Shakspeare is trampled on. Apol.By whom? Thal.Ducrow. F. C. Burnand Mr. Burnand has written more "classical" burlesques than any man living or dead. A university man, like Talfourd, he has displayed complete mastery of mythologic themes, submitting them to ingenious perversion, and adorning them with a wealth of pun and parody of which it is impossible, in these brief limits, to give more than a few samples. He has shown special interest in the legends connected with the siege of Troy, In "Dido," Mr. Burnand's genius for word-play is agreeably manifested. I take some lines at random:— "Æneas, son of Venus, sails the sea, Mighty and high." "As Venus' son should be." On the sea-shore, dear, I've just come from walking, Studying my fav'rite poets. Need I tell ye The works I read were those of Crabbe and Shelley? It is the Queen—of life she seems aweary; And mad as Lear, looking just as leary. A riddle strikes me: "Why's she thus behaving, Just like a bird of night?" "'Cos she's a raving." Mad as a March hare. It is the fate Of hares to be then in a rabid state. "I ne'er shall move as heretofore so gaily, I feel quite ill and dizzy." "Dizzy? Raly?" Æneas comes on first as a begging sailor, with "I'm starving" inscribed on a paper suspended from his neck. He strikes up a song, but soon stops it:— What? no one here? Thy singing vain appears. Land may have necks and tongues—it has no ears. None to be done, and nothing here to do. [Takes off begging paper.] "I'm starving." Ah, it happens to be true! On air I cannot feed, howe'er one stuffs, Not even when it comes to me in puffs. I wonder what's become of our small party, Who, yesterday, were sailing well and hearty? I saw our shipwrecked crew sink in the bay; 'Twould be a subject fit for Frith, R.A. And if the shore last night they failed in gaining, I am the only Landseer now remaining. Being no gambler, I'll ne'er trust again My fortunes to the chances of the main. In 1863 Mr. Burnand brought out, at the Royalty, "Ixion, or the Man at the Wheel," PsychÉ! PsychÉ! my own PsychÉ, The pretty, fair, and ever free!— But, otherwise, Graves's "book" is not particularly brilliant, Though smoothly written and fairly brisk in action. In "Cupid and Psyche" Mr. Burnand made Psyche the daughter of a king, who, because she will not marry and thus relieve him of the anxiety caused by a certain Prophecy, chains her to a rock on the sea-shore. To this he is incited by Venus, who regards Psyche as her rival A river! I debate with myself wedder I'll end my tale with a sensation header From a small boat. It could not clear the reeds; One cannot make an oar way through these s(weeds). Why should I live? Alas, from me forlorn Each lad turns on his heel to show his (s)corn! The county lads to me make no advances; The county girls avert their county-nances. Counties! (struck with an idea) I'll drown myself,— Down hesitation! Nor men, nor folk, shall stop my suffoc-ation! Elsewhere Mars says to Cupid:— Stop, you ill-bred little pup! Is this the way an 'Arrow boy's brought up? Your conduct would disgrace the lowest Cretan. Bacchus. "An 'Arrow boy!"—egad, that joke's a neat 'un. At another point Cupid himself says that A yawn, however gentle, Is to the face not very ornamental. At the very end of the piece, there is a skilful bit of rhyming. Psyche "comes down" and says:— Now, stupid— Why don't you speak the tag and finish, Cupid? Cupid. Because I'm in a fix, my charming friend. Psyche. How so? Cupid.The piece with your name ought to end; And, though I should give all my mind and time to it, I know that I shan't get a word to rhyme to it. Bacchus (as if he'd hit it—rather). Dikey! Zephyr (suggestively).Fikey! Venus (authoritatively).Likey! Cupid (who has shaken his head at each suggestion).Pooh! Chrysalis. Oh! (every one interested, as if she'd got it now) Crikey! (every one disgusted). Psyche. Ma'am, that's vulgar, and won't do. Grubbe (calmly and complacently). Ikey! Cupid.Absurd. I yield it in despair. Come—the finale; I'll commence the air (sings two very high notes—all shake their heads). Mars. Oh no! we cannot sing in such a high key. Cupid (joyfully to Psyche, catching the rhyme at once). That's it. (takes her hand—to audience). Pray smile on Cupid. Psyche.And on PsychÉ. Among other "classical" burlesques may be mentioned Mr. Burnand's "Arion," seen at the Strand in 1871, with Mr. Edward Terry, Mr. Harry Paulton, and Miss Augusta Thomson; and H. B. Farnie's "Vesta," produced at the St. James's in the same year, with Mr. John Wood and Mr. Lionel Brough. Mr. Burnand's "Sappho" (1866), and "Olympic Games" (1867), also call for mention. John Brougham's "Life in the Clouds" belongs to 1840; Tom Taylor's "Diogenes and his Lantern" to 1849; the Brothers Brough's "Sphinx" to the same year; William Brough's "Hercules and Omphale" to 1864; and Mr. Reece's "Agamemnon and Cassandra, or The Prophet and Loss of Troy," to 1868. |
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