 | Mr. Buckstone's Ascent of Mount Parnassus |  |
267
Chair and table, with wine and dessert on one side, and another table with writing materials and a pile of MSS.
Mr. Buckstone discovered seated at table, with a book in his hand, reading.
Mr. B.
(reading)
“When energizing objects men pursue,
What are the prodigies they cannot do?”
(laying down the book)
Well! mine's an energizing one, for certain—
At a fair profit to draw up my curtain
Nightly for forty weeks—and I shall view it
As quite a prodigy if I should do it.
How to begin? My brain I'm sick with spinning!
“Nothing so difficult as a beginning,”
Says my Lord Byron—and the truth, I vow,
Never appeared to me so clear as now.
What shall I open with? what sort of thing
Will hit the public hard, and money bring?
I can't say I've no choice. (pointing to MSS.)
Here's a small pile
Of manuscripts, of every sort and style—
Tragic and comic—classic and romantic.
To look at 'em's enough to drive one frantic!
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To wade through all that waste of pen and ink!
But done it must be—therefore let me try
A sample—take the first that meets my eye.
(takes MS. from the pile, opens first leaf and reads the title)
“Arsenic: a tragedy in fifteen acts
And forty tableaux, founded upon facts.”
A drama of the class they call exciting,
And full, no doubt, of very racy writing.
Will fifteen acts of arsenic make a hit?
Why it's enough to poison all the pit,
And can't be very wholesome for the stage.
For strong effects, however, there's a rage;
And such a dose as this, 'twill be agreed,
Must produce very strong effects indeed!
The public like the wonderful and wild;
The Drama won't draw if you draw it mild;
Managers mustn't murder be afraid of!
So I'll sit down, and see what arsenic's made of.
If with it I can't start my speculation,
It may be useful at its termination.
(sits at table, and begins reading MSS.)
“Act the first: Scene the first.—A chemist's shop
In the Old Bailey—clock strikes midnight.”—
Enter Fashion from panel.
S. of F.
Stop!
Mr. B.
Stop! Who and what am I to stop for—eh?
S. of F.
For Fashion.
Mr. B.
(jumping up and throwing down MSS.)
Fashion! you don't mean to say
That you are Fashion! Take a seat, sir, do;
(offers chair—Fashion sits)
We have reserved ones specially for you,
And hope you'll take 'em all—once be it said
That Fashion fills them, and my fortune's made.
S. of F.
How do you mean to entertain us, pray?
You don't suppose we'd come to see a play?
Mr. B.
Not see a play, when you're a play-house at?
What would you see there?
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Anything but that.
How the man stares! why you must surely know
Fashion has long ceased to the play to go,
Except by fits and starts.
Mr. B.
That is too true;
But now a fresh start's given the Drama to,
By royal patronage. “The play's the thing,”
And goes to Court. If that won't Fashion bring
Back to the play, why nothing will.
S. of F.
Mon cher,
That is a very different affair.
The Drama when presented by Court favour
Is in Court dress—and on her best behaviour.
She doesn't venture to try on the crown
The airs she gives herself before the town.
Great people little parts do not refuse;
The actors mind their P's as well as Q's.;
The author's language you hear every word of;
“Sudden indisposition's” never heard of.
All do their utmost—all is point device;
And we pay—nothing—and don't mind the price.
Mr. B.
But—
S. of F.
Pardon me, the story's but half told.
Of the medallion the reverse behold:
We are in town, and wish to see the play—
We dine late. (Mr. Buckstone about to speak)
This is not your fault, you'll say.
We'll make a sacrifice—we've heard some fellow
Is really not so bad in, say, “Othello.”
We take a cutlet at the club at six,
We're in our box at seven—the time you fix;
We have the pleasure, if your band is middling,
To sit through twenty minutes' moderate fiddling.
Something or someone's not quite ready—so
In spite of stamp and whistle on they go.
At last, before the curtain, with a face
Long as a minister's just out of place,
You come, and throw yourself, with much verbosity,
Upon a British public's generosity.
“Othello's” got a cold—or not his salary,
270
And so, some shocking muff will do his best,
Or the play's changed to something we detest;
With scenes and dresses all the worse for wear;
If it's not new, the manager don't care.
Then through some stupid farce we try to laugh,
And pay young Sams two guineas and a half.
Mr. B.
(rises)
Nay, really you're too hard upon us, sir,
An accident will now and then occur
In the best managed—Why, there's your delight,
The opera—changed almost every night!
Do their Othellos never have sore throats,
Or Normas lose their voice for lack of notes?
Are ballets never shorn of half their graces
For whitebait dinners, or the Ascot races?
And talk of waiting—what's the entr'acte
At the French play? Why should we be attacked
When foreigners may come and—
S. of F.
(rises)
My good friend,
Don't lose your temper, for you may depend
You'll want it several times during your season.
Our neighbours' errors form the poorest reason
For persevering in our own. You make,
Like other managers, a great mistake.
Though at some follies we politely wink,
Fashion is not the empty fool you think;
We don't run after anything that's new,
Or foreign unless there is talent too;
If we are pleased with it beyond the minute,
Rely upon't, there is some merit in it;
The highest point of art it may not touch,
But it's amusing—and that's saying much.
Mr. B.
But what perhaps may Fashion entertain,
Won't please the million.
S. of F.
There you're wrong again;
Fashion is not a few men about town,
Swells out of luck, and green young gents done brown;
Nor is it merely rank and wealth and station.
Fashion has taste, refinement, education;—
271
Fashion amongst the million you will find.
Mr. B.
It's very easy to say, do it—where
Is it to come from?
S. of F.
Ah!—that's your affair;
I've talked so much already, to say more
Might make me what I most abhor—a bore.
So let me see your programme when it's out,
And if it promise—'twill do that, no doubt,
We'll see what Fashion can do for the play,
Good morning, Mr. Buckstone—Bon succès.
Air—Fashion—“Les Fillettes de St. Cloud.”
I've talked so much already, to say more
Might make me what I most abhor—a bore.
So let me see your programme when it's out,
And if it promise—'twill do that, no doubt,
We'll see what Fashion can do for the play,
Good morning, Mr. Buckstone—Bon succès.
Bon succès—bon succès—
Do not be découragé
But recollect my hints to-day,
When you make your coup d'essai;
Do the best that you can do.
Never puff—it's mauvais goût—
Keep your word the public to,
And let the public puff for you.
Au revoir—Au revoir,
Bon succès, and bon espoir.
Who can tell what Fashion may
Even now do for the play?
(Exit Fashion)
Do not be découragé
But recollect my hints to-day,
When you make your coup d'essai;
Do the best that you can do.
Never puff—it's mauvais goût—
Keep your word the public to,
And let the public puff for you.
Au revoir—Au revoir,
Bon succès, and bon espoir.
Who can tell what Fashion may
Even now do for the play?
Mr. B.
Do for the play!—It's done for, sure enough,
If I'm to credit all that precious stuff.
Talking is mighty fine, but let him try
To do it—I should like to see him—why,
I could tell him, if I could calculate
On plays and actors being all first-rate,
And everybody doing what they're told,
And nobody to ever have a cold,
Or on a Saturday expect their money,
I should think management was twice as funny.
I'm puzzled more than ever what to do;
I might rout out a play as good as new,
But one as new as good is something really
To which my way I do not see so clearly.
Come to my aid, oh, Fortune!—now or never!
272
For.
I've no objection to aid good endeavour.
Mr. B.
Fortune!—are you the goddess men pursue so,
And come to help me?
For.
(advancing)
Come to try to do so,
But don't depend on me—remember this,
I'm sometimes called good Fortune, sometimes Miss.
Mr. B.
Miss-fortune! don't say that, you look too kind.
For.
Alas! I've the misfortune to be blind.
(takes off her bandage)
Mr. B.
What! with those eyes—then why a bandage wear?
For.
Oh, a mere metaphorical affair;
The stupid painters fancied, I suppose,
That I might see an inch beyond my nose
Without it. Nonsense! Did you never find
A manager to his own interest blind,
Whose eyes seemed sharp enough? Have you not known
Actors who saw no talent but their own,
Or authors who could grin like Cheshire cats
At their own jokes—to others blind as bats!
Not only on the stage, but the world through,
Eyes you'll find little have with sight to do.
The stupid painters fancied, I suppose,
That I might see an inch beyond my nose
Without it. Nonsense! Did you never find
A manager to his own interest blind,
Whose eyes seemed sharp enough? Have you not known
Actors who saw no talent but their own,
Or authors who could grin like Cheshire cats
At their own jokes—to others blind as bats!
Not only on the stage, but the world through,
Eyes you'll find little have with sight to do.
Air—Fortune—“The first time at the looking glass.”
I'm not more blind
Than half mankind—
I might say nearly all, sir;
How few there be
Themselves can see
Who blind their neighbours call, sir.
If Fortune puts a fool in place,
Or gives a knave a pension,
Is she more blind in such a case
Than others we can mention?
Than half mankind—
I might say nearly all, sir;
How few there be
Themselves can see
Who blind their neighbours call, sir.
If Fortune puts a fool in place,
Or gives a knave a pension,
Is she more blind in such a case
Than others we can mention?
There's Cupid who
They paint so, too,
How oft he laughs with me, sir,
At human moles,
Poor purblind souls,
Pretending they can see, sir!
Nay, boasting of perception keen,
Till suddenly reminded,
By some sad fall how much they've been
By Love or Fortune blinded.
They paint so, too,
How oft he laughs with me, sir,
At human moles,
Poor purblind souls,
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Nay, boasting of perception keen,
Till suddenly reminded,
By some sad fall how much they've been
By Love or Fortune blinded.
However, here I am—for good or bad
You've got a chance not always to be had.
If you're afraid of Fortune, let her go.
Mr. B.
No! I'll accept your aid—come wheel, come woe.
So shew me first what Fashion's been to see;
And Fortune crowned with special favour—
Music—At a sign from Fortune the scene changes to the room in the Egyptian Hall, fitted up as a Swiss Châlet, for Mr. Albert Smith's Entertainment, “The Ascent of Mont Blanc”—The Spirit of Mont Blanc appears in the rostrum through door, as much like Mr. Albert Smith as possible.
S. of M. B.
Me!
Mr. B.
You—who are you?
S. of M. B.
The Spirit of Mont Blanc.
To witness my ascent has now been long
The fashion.
Mr. B.
True; but then that's not a play.
For.
No, it's an entertainment.
Mr. B.
In its way—
S. of M. B.
I hope I'm not in yours at any rate.
Mr. B.
What do you mean, sir, to insinuate?
S. of M. B.
Nothing; I mean exactly what I say,
I hope I'm not in anybody's way.
I struck out for myself a path quite new,
And have succeeded—may you do so too.
Mr. B.
Mont Blanc's a noble mountain. Sir, your hand!
I've often heard how very high you stand,
And have no doubt you'll keep your proud position.
S. of M. B.
I've gained the summit, sir, of my ambition.
Mr. B.
And mine is summat like it—slippery ground,
And very up-hill work, as lots have found,
274
To a poor body—
S. of M. B.
Humph! I see your drift.
You want a leaf or two out of my book,
To shew you how to get up pieces. Look!
Music—The centre of the Châlet opens, as at the Egyptian Hall, and discovers the last but two of the views, namely— the “Coming Down” of the party, slipping and falling in all directions.
Mr. B.
D'ye call that getting up?
S. of M. B.
How stupid! No,
That's the wrong scene—that's coming down.
For.
Just so.
Mr. B.
It strikes me forcibly that there again,
The parallel 'twixt you and me is plain.
There's so much getting up to please the town,
It takes a precious deal of “coming down;”
And when a piece is all show and no fun,
The manager may come down with “the run.”
S. of M. B.
Well, I must run now, for it's growing late,
And I have to get up myself at eight.
If I can shew you how to break the ice,
You may depend upon my best advice;
Let jealousy torment the low and weak.
For.
Mont Blanc's a mountain above any pique.
Duo—Fortune and Spirit of Mont Blanc—“By the Margin of Zurich.”
For.
“Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains,”
S. of M. B.
Aye, aye, O!
For.
I crowned him myself long ago,
And here with songs, garlands, and fountains,
S. of M. B.
Aye, aye, O!
For.
His Majesty's got up for show,
He has taken the tide at the flow,
Which leads on to Fortune, we know,
And he'll find when he comes up to count gains,
S. of M. B.
Aye, aye, O!
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Home with many more crowns he will go.
Aye, aye, O—aye, aye, O. He's making, I'm told—
Aye, aye, O—aye, aye, O—A mountain of gold.
Exit Spirit of Mont Blanc—Scene closes.
Mr. B.
That mountain has a very liberal spirit,
And all his views consideration merit.
What if I altered mine and really took
A leaf as he suggests out of his book—
Throw over bodily the worn-out Drama,
And open with a pan—or diorama
Of my adventures in some foreign land?
I want no company—I need no band—
No actor—and no author but myself;
If I succeed I pocket all the pelf,
Except what goes for scene painting and rent.
For.
I've seen the town with scene painting content.
Mr. B.
But then to make a tour I must have time,
And up what other mountain should I climb?
Mount Ætna, Mount Vesuvius, something frightful
The public generally think delightful!
For.
They've had an earthquake in the Regent's Park,
But there the public are left in the dark!
It happened such a time ago, there's no one,
Who wasn't swallowed up, the scene to shew one.
Mr. B.
“My personal adventures in a crater”
Would be a title with attraction greater,
Or “Mr. Buckstone's views of a volcano,
Accompanied by himself on the piano.”
For.
Write down the titles—look at them by turns.
Mr. B.
(going to table)
As Brutus says, “How ill this taper burns.”
(snuffs it)
Music—He sits down to write—the stage gets very dark, and the Spirit of the Corsican Brothers rises, and crossing, as in the drama of that name, touches Mr. Buckstone on the shoulder—He starts up.
276
What in the name of Fortune are you at?
For.
You wanted something frightful—look at that.
Mr. B.
It does look very horrible and ghastly.
Is it a ghost?
For.
It is.
Mr. B.
And whence from, lastly?
For.
From The “Princess's,” were he made a hit
In a terrific duel.
Music—The Spirit points to the back of the stage, the scene opens and discovers the tableau of the Duel Scene in the “Corsican Brothers.”
Mr. B.
Wait a bit!
He made a hit—then who hit him again,
And killed him?
For.
I'll endeavour to explain,
But it would puzzle one far from a dunce.
That gentleman's two gentlemen at once;
“The counterfeit presentment of two brothers,”
He plays first one man's part and then the other's—
At the same time and in two different acts.
Mr. B.
Stop! First—at the same time—in two. If facts,
He must be something extra supernatural,
I can't make out whatever at you're all.
For.
The supernatural is all the rage—
More than a hundred nights he's walked the stage.
Mr. B.
What, one after another—both together—
I mean—no—pshaw! I really don't know whether
I'm on my head or heels. Speak, sir, are you
And that dead gentleman the same, or two?
S. of C. B.
(in imitation of Mr. Charles Kean)
I am his spirit, come to shew me how
He, that is I, was killed to-morrow, now.
Mr. B.
I give it up. It is not to be done!
“Two single gentlemen rolled into one”
I comprehend—but as to the chronology,
It's out of sight of electro-biology!
S. of C. B.
Can't you suppose a simultaneous action?
Mr. B.
No—but it seems that you gave satisfaction
Twice in one piece, and therefore had good reason
To run through one another all the season.
What more could manager or actor prize?
277
And as a ghost I found a way to rise
Better than ever ghost arose before.
I opened for the town a new trap-door,
And took 'em in by that.
Mr. B.
You lucky chap!
The very thing I want is a new trap!
All our old clap-traps are worn so threadbare.
S. of C. B.
Mine came from France—half our stage comes from there.
(music—Spirit sinks and scene closes)
Mr. B.
I'll take that ghost's word for a thousand pounds!
We take French leave to build upon French grounds,
And for one sculpture, by an English master,
We get a hundred casts in Paris plaster.
What shall the English Drama now uphold
Upon the scene of all its triumphs?
For.
Gold!
Music—Enter Spirit of Drury Lane.
Mr. B.
Gold! Is it possible?
S. of D. L.
Yes! once again
Gold is produced in heaps at Drury Lane.
Air—Spirit of Drury Lane—“Cheer, boys, cheer.”
Gold is produced in heaps at Drury Lane.
Cheer, boys, cheer! no more of empty benches,
Pits full of gold reward a modern play,
Which not a mere translation from the French is,
But sterling ore, dug out of English clay.
Pits full of gold reward a modern play,
Which not a mere translation from the French is,
But sterling ore, dug out of English clay.
Authors of England, driven to desperation,
Seek not for food upon a foreign shore;
Nor to Australia dream of emigration.
Dig here in England and flourish as of yore!
Seek not for food upon a foreign shore;
Nor to Australia dream of emigration.
Dig here in England and flourish as of yore!
Cheer, boys, cheer! Old Drury Mother Goose is!
Here, boys, here, the golden eggs abound.
Cheer, boys, cheer, for gold the stage produces!
Here, boys, here, is the true Tom Tickler's ground!
Here, boys, here, the golden eggs abound.
Cheer, boys, cheer, for gold the stage produces!
Here, boys, here, is the true Tom Tickler's ground!
278
Mr. B.
Home-made too, and not smuggled in from France;
Come! for the Drama, then, there is a chance!
For.
Yes, while gold lasts—but fast away it fritters,
And on the stage “all is not gold that glitters!”
S. of D. L.
And whose fault's that, if not your own, Miss Fortune?
For.
That's right! abuse the power you all importune.
The fact is that good Fortune turns your brain,
And then with you I'm Miss Fortune again.
S. of D. L.
Because of every other hope bereft
The Drama is to Fortune's mercy left.
So much is she your slave, that e'en the weather
Can ruin all the theatres together!
The State no temple to the Drama gives—
She keeps a shop, and on chance custom lives,
From hand to mouth. What cares she for disgrace,
While Basinghall Street stares her in the face?
Will any manager, who's not a ninny,
To walk the stage give Roscius one poor guinea,
When he can double his receipts by dealing
With a man-fly, who walks upon the ceiling?
For.
Well, here is one at least who can't repine
At Fortune.
Enter Spirit of the Lyceum.
Mr. B.
The Lyceum! Ah, a fine
And lively spirit—full of animation!
What do you play?
S. of L.
“A game of speculation.”
Mr. B.
That's a game most of us with spirit play;
But none, I own, with spirits quite so gay
As you.
279
Oh, my good spirits never flag.
I'm game for anything! The world may wag
Just as it will. Before the wind I sail!
Mr. B.
How do you raise it?
S. of L.
By a fairy tale
Sometimes, but Fortune knows at what expense!
And sometimes by a long Chain of Events.
Mr. B.
Ah! I remember—in eight acts! (goes to table)
here's one
In fifteen, that should have a longer run.
(shewing the MS.)
S. of L.
“Arsenic!” faugh! If such poison should succeed,
The Drama will become a drug indeed!
Give me fun, splendour, music, dancing, dress,
Those are the elements of my success.
Nothing that can the most fastidious shock!
Mr. B.
You're a Phenomenon!
S. of L.
“In a Smock Frock.”
S. of D. L.
A blouse you mean—I'm up to your French priggings.
S. of L.
Go to the d---! A-hem! I mean “the diggings.”
Air—Spirit of Lyceum—“Nelly Bly.”
Gaily I run with my
“Good woman” along,
And devils, blue or black, defy
With splendour, mirth, and song!
Fly over, try over
Fairy-land, and see
What scenes are there,
Which can compare
With those of Beverley!
“Good woman” along,
And devils, blue or black, defy
With splendour, mirth, and song!
Fly over, try over
Fairy-land, and see
What scenes are there,
Which can compare
With those of Beverley!
Mr. B.
Talk of the devil, as you did just then,
Who are these very black old gentlemen?
280
1st. U. T.
Lor, massa, don't you know whar I come from?
Mr. B.
“Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle”—Tom!
But here are half-a-dozen uncles more!
1st U. T.
Anoder nigger, too, outside de door;
But him on horseback, so him can't come in.
Mr. B.
On horseback!
1st U. T.
Ees. Him through horse-collar grin
At Astley's.
Mr. B.
Mercy on us, with what fury
Has this black fever raged! The Olympic, Drury,
Adelphi, Marylebone, Victoria, Surrey!
Against each other running hurry-scurry.
Whipping their Topsys up in ways most scurvy,
And turning the poor Drama topsy-turvy!
Why this plague's come upon her, Fortune knows.
For.
'Cause she's so wicked, massa, I suppose.
Air—Fortune—“Poor Old Ned.”
Of “Uncle Tom's Cabin” who has not had a sight?
Who of Topsy the name does not know?
If any one could wash a blackamoor white
It would be Mrs. Beecher Stowe.
It's a very good book we know,—we know,
And has made us our noses to blow,
But they've worked him so much, I wish poor Uncle Tom
Was gone where all good niggers go.
Who of Topsy the name does not know?
If any one could wash a blackamoor white
It would be Mrs. Beecher Stowe.
It's a very good book we know,—we know,
And has made us our noses to blow,
But they've worked him so much, I wish poor Uncle Tom
Was gone where all good niggers go.
Wherever you travel, wherever you stop,
Uncle Tom his black poll's sure to show;
With his songs, polkas, waltzes, they fill every shop,
Till like Topsy, “I 'specs they must grow!”
The stage had enough of Jim Crow—Jim Crow.
A jumping and a “doing just so,”
And 'twould be quite a blessing if poor old Tom
Would after that good nigger go.
Uncle Tom his black poll's sure to show;
With his songs, polkas, waltzes, they fill every shop,
Till like Topsy, “I 'specs they must grow!”
The stage had enough of Jim Crow—Jim Crow.
A jumping and a “doing just so,”
And 'twould be quite a blessing if poor old Tom
Would after that good nigger go.
Mr. B.
But what has brought all these good folks to me?
For.
My latest favourites you wished to see.
These are a few—but I could shew you more.
281
I've seen enough. Pray shew them all the door!
(music—Scene closes—Exeunt all but Fortune and Mr. Buckstone)
One word in private—pray the question pardon,
Has Fortune quite deserted Covent Garden?
For.
Oh, dear no! Fashion's on the point divided,
But Fortune has the question quite decided.
Its English spirit long ago expired,
But there's a foreign one, now much admired,
Which from the old Italian Opera flew,
At Covent Garden to set up a new.
Behold him.
Spirit of Royal Italian Opera rises.
Mr. B.
He's a very foreign air.
Parlate Italiano?
S. of I. O.
Ja, meinherr.
Mr. B.
That's not Italian!
For.
No, that's German.
Mr. B.
Oh!
Sprechen sie Deutsch?
S. of I. O.
Un peu, monsieur!
Mr. B.
Hollo!
That's French, and no mistake! Why, you can't be
Th'Italian Opera, surely?
S. of I. O.
Signor, si.
Mr. B.
Well, if you say so; but I tell you what,
I should call you the Royal Polyglot.
For.
Remember, he is the interpreter, man,
Of a French opera, written by a German,
Into Italian for our stage translated!
Mr. B.
Is that the case?
For.
With the most celebrated.
They say “Les Huguenots” and “Le Prophète,”
Is the Italian opera of this date.
Air—Spirit of Royal Italian Opera—“Piff! Paff! Piff!”
“Piff! paff! piff! paff!”
It can not much matter
In what tongue we utter
Such words as the latter,
Which all tongues can sputter.
It can not much matter
In what tongue we utter
Such words as the latter,
Which all tongues can sputter.
282
Italian or German, French, English, Malay,
However you mumble 'em,
Rumble 'em, grumble 'em,
“Piff! paff! piff!” means no more,
Than “Piff! paff! piff!” did before.
However you mumble 'em,
Rumble 'em, grumble 'em,
“Piff! paff! piff!” means no more,
Than “Piff! paff! piff!” did before.
Piff! paff! piff! paff! &c.
Translator, adapter,
Ring changes they may—
To the end of the chapter,
“Piff! paff!” you must say.
Ring changes they may—
To the end of the chapter,
“Piff! paff!” you must say.
Piff! paff! &c.
Mr. B.
My ears are sick of all this horrid jargon,
The Drama to be saved is much too far gone!
My mind's made up—Mont Blanc has done the trick,
And to my first idea I will stick!
Up or down something wonderful I'll go!
For.
For ups and downs Fortune is famed, you know.
Mr. B.
What mountain famed in history or fable
Is there on earth which no one has been able
Lately to scale? For soon each cockney will
The Peak of Teneriffe like Primrose Hill!
For.
There's Mount Parnassus. I think you may swear
Nobody lately has gone high up there.
Mr. B.
Parnassus!—O, kind Fortune! what a thought!
Of all the places, just the one I ought
To go to! Only think if I should pop
On a new poet!
For.
'Twon't be near the top.
Mr. B.
But anywhere in the right road, he'd be,
Just at this moment, a great catch for me!
So off I start for—pooh! it seems absurd;
But it is such a time since I have heard
News from that classic quarter. In reality,
I've quite forgotten its precise locality.
For.
Somewhere in Greece. But Fortune, I confess,
Seldom of poets knows the right address;
She sometimes hears their names from reputation,
But rarely visits their poor habitation.
Mr. B.
I have engaged a painter—very knowing—
To marshal me the way that I was going;
He shall sketch out a route for me.
283
He's got
A sketch already made upon the spot,
Music—Scene draws and discovers a distant and general view of Mount Parnassus—(see page 262.)
And one more classical I never saw;
It's hard if such a painter cannot draw.
Mr. B.
“O thou, Parnassus!—which I now survey,
“Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
“But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
“In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!”
If there be any spirit in you left,
If of all poetry you're not bereft,
Assist a manager who fain would rise
By honest means and worthy enterprise.
And from your summit take as something new
Of our poor stage an elevated view;
And giving to his scenes a higher tone,
Improve the Drama's fortune—and his own!
Music—Castalia appears.
Cas.
Thy prayer is heard!—To guard his sacred hill
Apollo left in it a spirit still;
The nymph of the old pure Castalian fountain,
With pleasure sees new pilgrims to the mountain,
Which he whose words you quoted struck his lyre on,
The latest, greatest English pilgrim, Byron!
His words have drawn me hither like a spell!
Mr. B.
Then you are she he has described so well,
In language which can never be forgot;
“The gentle spirit that pervades the spot
Sighs in the gale—keeps silence in the cave,
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave!”
Cas.
I am, and ready to become your guide
To all the marvels on the mountain's side,
“Which others rave of though they know them not!”
Shew you “Apollo's long-deserted grot,—
The Muses' seat—and which is now their grave!”
284
Their grave! could nothing the poor damsels save
From death?—I thought they were immortal ladies,
Whom fate itself could not consign to Hades.
Cas.
Out of their lives they have been nearly worried,
But they are not quite dead—they're only buried.
Mr. B.
Buried alive?
Cas.
Yes, in a sort of swoon;
But any genius could awake them soon.
Mr. B.
And haven't you got any genius here?
Cas.
In Greece!—there may be, but it don't appear;
And if you wait for one the hill to climb,
You'll lose, I fear, a precious deal of time.
Mr. B.
And I have none to spare.—So come, kind friends.
Good Fortune, help me, won't you?
For.
That depends.
Better not trust to me—my wheel may take
An awkward turn—my foot some slip might make.
Keep to the right—that path with zeal pursue,
And ten to one good fortune follows you.
Cas.
Now then, we'll set at once out on our road,
And I'll describe the journey à la mode—
De Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson, who hand
You up Mont Blanc—or through “the Holy Land.”
Air—Castalia—“Follow, follow, o'er the mountain.”
And I'll describe the journey à la mode—
De Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson, who hand
You up Mont Blanc—or through “the Holy Land.”
Follow, follow, up the mountain,
By the ancient “Holy Way,”
And I'll lead you to the fountain,
Where the Muses used to play.
By the ancient “Holy Way,”
And I'll lead you to the fountain,
Where the Muses used to play.
All the marvels of the mountain,
You will see upon your road;
And the spirit of the fountain
Shall describe them à la mode.
You will see upon your road;
And the spirit of the fountain
Shall describe them à la mode.
285
Follow, follow, all in turn, sir,
Touching temple, spring, and tree,
From the fountain-head you'll learn, sir,
If you follow, follow me!
Touching temple, spring, and tree,
From the fountain-head you'll learn, sir,
If you follow, follow me!
(scene changes)
(assuming the tone of an exhibitor)
You are already where you wished to go;
We have left London by the stage, you know,
And have arrived by a now common process,
In Greece—that portion anciently called Phocis,
Which Strabo said was in two parts divided
By Mount Parnassus.—Strabo mind—not I did,
For Strabo's wrong—at least the point's disputed,
But there are two points which can't be refuted,
And those are the two peaks you see there still,
Which gave the name of “forkèd” to the hill.
For.
No wonder Grecian bards so praised its bowers;
We have no mountain to fork out for ours.
Cas.
The summit being always capped with snow,
The poets called it “snowy.”
Mr. B.
Did they though?
That must have cost them very serious study.
Our Snow Hill's called so 'cause it's always muddy.
Scene begins to move, exhibiting first the modern Greek village of Crisso and Acropolis of the ancient Crissa, and then the Schiste and “Sacred Way”)
Cas.
We're now descending by the old highway.
The soil is barren.
For.
So too many say.
286
But pleasant prospects, which the eye still mock,
Lure the young pilgrim on from rock to rock,
And so he rambles on, dreaming and rhyming.
Mr. B.
Unless by chance he breaks his neck in climbing.
Cas.
We're now approaching the famed site of Delphi.
Mr. B.
Oh, that's a sight I long to see myself, I
Must confess!
Cas.
You'll find it worth a visit.
(scene stops, exhibiting a view of Delphi)
Mr. B.
It isn't much like the A-delphi, is it?
Cas.
'Tis now called Castri, and was once named Pytho,
But no one seems exactly to know why, though.
Here stood the famous Temple of Apollo,
Whose oracles the old world used to swallow,
Spouted by priestesses who had the vapours.
Mr. B.
Our oracles are now the daily papers.
For.
You've oracles in all the clubs in town,
Whose prophecies are gulped as glibly down;
And like the ancient ones of which you spoke,
Having begun in vapour—end in smoke.
(scene moves)
Cas.
This steeper path will next our footsteps bring
To the old source of the Castalian spring,
Which I've the honour now to represent,
Though far from feeling in my element.
(scene stops, exhibiting the Castalian Fountain)
Behold of poetry the famous stream,
At once the inspiration and the theme.
An ancient fig tree o'er it throws its shade.
Mr. B.
As if “a fig for poetry” it said!
Cas.
Here in Homeric days Latona's daughters
Came with their dear papa to drink the waters.
287
And isn't there a single Muse about
To answer, if a manager sings out?
Cas.
Let Fortune try her power of invocation;
I live in hopes of their resuscitation.
Air—Fortune—“O Fortune, à ton caprice.”
Fortune, who to her caprices
Oft has made the Muses bow,
Feels, as bullion fast increases,
Art might rise in value now.
Gold, no more a chimera,
May appear the poet too;
Fate a golden era
For the Muses may renew.
Fortune, &c.
Music—“Robert le Diable”—Clio, Euterpe, Urania, rise—Polyhymnia enters slowly from the side avenue in the rock, veiled, and Calliope, Thalia, Melpomene, Terpsichore, and Erato rise, also veiled, like the nuns in “Robert le Diable”—They fling off their veils, and appear with their proper emblems)
Mr. B.
All nine, by Jupiter! Come just the nick in!
They look alive— (Terpsichore makes a pirouette)
—and one of them is kicking!
(to Castalia)
Oblige me by an introduction.
Cas.
(bringing forward Clio)
Clio,
The Muse of History.
Mr. B.
A lady I owe
Much information to, on matters past.
I hope you haven't written us your last.
Clio.
Alas, my time is past in looking o'er,
And contradicting what I wrote before;
So many errors in me are detected,
I don't know when I shall stand quite corrected.
Mr. B.
“Your modesty's a flambeau to your merit,”
I wish historians all had the same spirit.
288
Euterpe, the enchanting Muse of Music.
Mr. B.
The world I'm sure will never be of you sick.
Eut.
I'm sick of it; through crowded concerts wading,
They walk me off my legs now promenading;
And though they do profess extreme devotion,
How few there are who have of me a notion!
The Ancient Concerts, where so high I stand did,
Are now shut up, and all my band disbanded,
And rival operas to jangling harps
Strain their “harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.”
Cas.
The Muse of Rhetoric—fair Polyhymnia.
Mr. B.
Fair Polly who?
Cas.
A lady who will trim you,
If you have any words with her.
Mr. B.
Not I!
A word from her may serve me by-and-bye.
Cas.
Urania, of Astronomy the Muse.
Mr. B.
Then you know all the stars and won't refuse
To tell me if you've any for the stage meant,
Who may just now be out of an engagement?
Ura.
For the light business they've high terms above,
And won't come down for money or for love.
Mr. B.
Ah! the old story! but we must resist 'em,
The ruin of the stage is that star system!
Cas.
Calliope—Erato—the two Muses
Of Poetry.
Cal.
Behold to what base uses
We've come at last. In lieu of epics writing,
Puffs for Whitechapel tailors I'm inditing—
While my poor sister here gets not a thankye
For any song that isn't nigger-yankee.
For.
Byron, Moore, Southey, Campbell, Wordsworth, Scott,
Are gone—but we've a Poet Laureate got,
Who wears the laurel and enjoys the wine.
Era.
Poets in place are rarely known to shine.
The crown bestows the laurel; but, alack,
'Tis from the Muses that they get the sack.
Cas.
Thalia and Melpomene—
Mr. B.
Pooh! stuff!
I know those Muses, I'm sure, well enough—
289
Mel.
We were so, mortal, when there was a play.
Mr. B.
Well, now I hear your voice, and look again—
But, Lord! how you are altered.
Tha.
'Tis with pain
That we admit it.
For.
You've had much to try you.
Mr. B.
You haven't got a tragedy now by you,
Or comedy, or some dramatic oddity,
That can be called good Haymarket commodity?
Mel.
Is there a chance of seeing it well acted?
For lately we've been driven quite distracted.
Mr. B.
Well, I won't promise—I'll do all I can.
Tha.
There's no complaint of you, my little man.
Mel.
I almost fear to ask and yet I must,
Is Shakespeare living still, or in the dust?
Mr. B.
Shakespeare! We call him the illustrious stranger;
He has been drooping—but he's out of danger,
And gone to Sadler's Wells and the Princess's
For change of air—I may say scenes and dresses.
Cas.
Terpsichore, the Muse of Dancing.
Mr. B.
You
I know are thriving.
Ter.
I've too much to do.
Dancing is quite a mania now in town;
Each night to some casino drags me down,
Where I am pulled by fast young men about,
And with eternal polking quite worn out.
Then at the opera, where I was renowned,
Between two stools I've fallen to the ground.
At one they say the ballet only bores,
At 'tother I'm turned fairly out of doors!
Mr. B.
Well, in the Haymarket with me, you may
Still cut a figure in a quiet way.
I shan't attempt to rival my great neighbour,
But I'll find cash, if you'll find legs and labour.
Ter.
I'll muse upon your offer.
Mr. B.
Don't say no!
(scene moves)
Cas.
Remember, you have higher still to go.
Here we must quit the pure Castalian wave,
290
Where still in fancy the rapt pilgrim sees
Pan sporting with the fair Corycides.
(scene stops and discovers the Corycian Cave)
Music—Entrée of Pan and Nymphs (Corycides and Thyades)—Ballet and grotesque dance of Pan.
Mr. B.
Oh, this is capital! What forms and faces!
Such Coryphées can never want good places!
For.
Engage them for the ballet every one—
There's nothing like legs if you want a run.
Mr. B.
And such a Pan—so classically funny!
In “Midas” he would bring a mint of money!
I'll have him too!
For.
I grant he'd be a catch,
But an Apollo you must find to match.
Music—The back of the cave opens and discovers the Summit of Parnassus, on which Apollo is seen enthroned and surrounded by the rays of the rising sun)
Apol.
Behold him!
All.
Mighty Phœbus!
Mr. B.
Can it be?
And will you really, sir, engage with me?
Apol.
Yes, if you come up to my mark.
Mr. B.
I'll try!
But I'm afraid your figure's very high.
291
As far as you have come, the road is easy;
But from this spot you'll find the journey tease ye.
The odds are you will get some awkward tumble.
But if you would succeed, toil on—don't grumble.
Apollo has descended once, you know,
To earth, but that was very long ago.
By mortals he was little understood.
Now, if secure his service mortals would,
They must spare neither toil of brain nor limb,
But of Parnassus climb the steep to him!
Mr. B.
It's worth the struggle, if it can be done!
There's nothing new, we know, beneath the sun.
So if on novelty we mean to feast,
As high as Phœbus we must go, at least.
As manager the rubicon I've passed,
“And set,” of course, “my life upon a cast.”
I wish to keep the Drama up, and so
(to Audience)
With your permission on I'll boldly go;
And from Apollo learn the highest ways
To those fine arts which may the Drama raise.
The goal's in sight! some checks I must endure,
But give me your assent and mine's secure!
Finale—“Unfurl the Gipsy Tent.”
Mr. B.
Oft of the mountain in labour you've heard,
Which but gave birth to a mouse so absurd;
Now of this mountain I beg of the House,
To spare for my sake the ridiculous mouse;
Here let us nightly go up with the town,
And with applause let the curtain come down.
Chorus.
Here let us nightly, &c.
Cas.
And if the mountain to please has a way;
Still as the fountain permit me to play,
Rise in our favour, for you are the sun,
In whose bright beams I would merrily run.
292
Tip of our mountain the summit with gold.
Chorus.
Warm the poor fountain, &c.
S. of F.
(entering)
Fashion forgive, if I've failed to portray
Of your spirit refined all the air distingué.
Young in my art, with ambition I burn,
High life to draw, from the life let me learn;
Sit to us nightly in box or in stall,
And Spirits of Fashion we soon shall be all.
Chorus.
Sit to us nightly, &c.
For.
Fortune herself at your mercy you see,
You must decide what her fortune's to be,
Here with her wheel on the turn has she stood,
If not amiss let her stay here for good,
If in her favour the turn should appear,
Good Fortune will smile upon every one here.
Chorus.
If in our favour, &c.
CURTAIN.
Dr. Busby. Address written for the opening of Drury Lane Theatre. Vide Moore's “Life of Lord Byron,” vol. ii., p. 177.
The diorama of the earthquake at Lisbon, a.d. 1755, when upwards of 60,000 persons perished. It was exhibited at the Colosseum.
This was Mr. Sands, the “American air walker,” then exhibiting at Drury Lane as a “man-fly.” A similar performance was given in 1838, and alluded to in “Drama's Levée,” vide vol. II. —Eds.
“At the base of the lofty crags where the Crissa of Homer stood, which preserves in its modern name of Crisso, and in the huge polygonal walls of its acropolis, the memorials of its ancient greatness.” —Wordsworth's “Greece.”
“After we had crossed this valley we began to ascend Parnassus by the Pass of Schiste, having lofty precipices on each side of us. . . . The remains of the old pavement of the ‘Via Sacra’ are seen in different parts of the route, and indeed the whole route from Lapadea to Delphi. The road now, become stony and very bad, was indeed the more difficult, by offering a continued acclivity.” —Dr. Clarke.
“It was beginning to grow dark as we drew nigh to Castri, the name of a wretched village now occupying the site of the sacred city.” —Dr. Clarke.
“Upon the left hand a large wild fig tree, sprouting above the water of the fountain on that side of the basin, spreads its branches over the surface of the rock.” —Dr. Clarke.
“Having arrived at the foot of the mountain on the northern side of the valley, we ascended more than half way to its summit, when a small triangular entrance presented itself, conducting into the great chamber of the cavern, which is upwards of 200 feet in length, and about 100 high in the middle. Drops of water from the roof had formed large calcareous crystallizations rising at the bottom, and others were suspended from every part of the roof and sides. . . . . . . ‘The inhabitants of Parnassus’ (says Pausanius) ‘esteem it sacred to the Corycian Nymphs and particularly to Pan;’ and Mr. H. Raikes discovered an inscription in the cavern to the following effect:— ‘Eustratus, son of Dacidomus, of Ambryssus, to Pan and the Nymphs who frequent these places together.’” —M. W. Leake, vol. ii.
| Mr. Buckstone's Ascent of Mount Parnassus | |