The First Parody in “Rejected Addresses.”
The very first author selected for imitation by the Smiths was one whose writings have long since been forgotten, and whose name alone is preserved from oblivion by Byron’s lines:—
“Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall.”
Mr. W. T. Fitzgerald actually sent in a serious address to the Drury Lane Committee on August 31, 1812. It was published, among the other Genuine Rejected Addresses, in that year. It contained the following lines:—
“The troubled shade of Garrick, hovering near,
Dropt on the burning pile a pitying tear.”
On which Smith remarks, “What a pity, that like Sterne’s Recording Angel, it did not succeed in blotting the fire out for ever! That failing, why not adopt Gulliver’s remedy?” Fitzgerald’s writings do not appear to have attained the dignity of a collected edition, but in the Library of the British Museum a number of his poems and prologues are preserved, from which the following is selected as a fair example of his style. It will also illustrate the humour of the parody.
BRITONS TO ARMS.
Written by W. T. Fitzgerald, Esq., and recited by him at the meeting of the Literary Fund, July 14.
Britons, to arms! of apathy beware,
And let your Country be your dearest care,
Protect your Altars! guard your Monarch’s Throne.
The cause of George and Freedom is your own!
What! shall that England want her Sons support,
Whose Heroes fought at Cressy … Agincourt?
And when Great Marlborough led the English Van,
In France, o’er Frenchmen, triumphed to a man!
By Alfred’s great and ever honored name!
By Edward’s Prowess, and by Henry’s Fame!
By all the gen’rous Blood for Freedom shed!
And by the ashes of the Patriot Dead!
By the Bright Glory Britons lately won,
On Egypt’s plains beneath the burning sun.
Britons, to arms! defend your Country’s cause;
Fight for your King, your Liberties and Laws!
Be France defied, her slavish Yoke abhorr’d,
And place your safety only on your Sword.
The Gallic Despot, sworn your mortal Foe,
Now aims his last, but his most deadly blow;
With England’s plunder tempts his hungry slaves,
And dares to brave you on your native waves,
If Briton’s rights be worth a Briton’s care,
To shield them from the sons of Rapine, swear!
Then to Invasion be defiance given,
Your cause is just, approved by earth and heaven,
Should adverse winds our gallant fleet restrain,
To sweep his bawbling[6] vessels from the main,
And fate permit him on our shores t’advance.
The Tyrant never shall return to France:
Fortune herself shall be no more his friend,
And here the history of his crimes shall end,
His slaughtered legions shall manure our shore,
And England never know Invasion more.
Printed for James Askern, 32, Cornhill, for 1d. each, or 6s. per 100.
Noblemen, magistrates, and gentlemen would do well by ordering a few dozen of the above tracts of their different booksellers, and causing them to be stuck up in the respective villages where they reside, that the inhabitants may be convinced of the cruelty of the Corsican usurper.
Loyal Effusion.
BY W. T. F.
“Quicquid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant,
Laudo id quoque,” Terence.
Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work!
God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!
Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox,
Grant me in Drury Lane a private box,
Where I may loll, cry Bravo! and profess
The boundless powers of England’s glorious press;
While Afric’s sons exclaim from shore to shore,
“Quashee ma boo!”—the slave-trade is no more!
In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony,
Since ruined by that arch-apostate Bony),
A Phœnix late was caught: the Arab host
Long ponder’d—part would boil it, part would roast;
But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies,
Fledged, beak’d, and claw’d, alive they see him rise
To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies.
So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed,
Then by old renters to hot water doom’d
By Wyatt’s trowel patted, plump and sleek,
Soars without wings, and caws without a beak.
Gallia’s stern despot shall in vain advance
From Paris, the metropolis of France;
By this day month the monster shall not gain
A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.
See Wellington in Salamanca’s field
Forces his favourite general to yield,
Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont
Expiring on the plain without his arm on;
Madrid he enters at the cannon’s mouth,
And then the villages still further south,
Base Bonapartè, filled with deadly ire,
Sets one by one our playhouses on fire.
Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on
The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon;
Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames,
Next at Millbank he cross’d the river Thames;
Thy hatch, O Halfpenny![7] pass’d in a trice,
Boil’d some black pitch, and burnt down Astley’s twice;
Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum,
Turn’d to the left hand, fronting the Asylum,
And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry—
(’Twas call’d the Circus then, but now the Surrey).
Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain
Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane?
Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork
(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!)
With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,
And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos?
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?
Who fills the butchers’ shops with large blue flies?
Who thought in flames St James’s court to pinch?
Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?—
Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke,
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,
“The tree of freedom is the British oak.”
Bless every man possess’d of aught to give;
Long may Long Tylney Wellesley Long Pole live;
God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet,
God bless the Navy, bless the Princess Charlotte;
God bless the guards, though worsted Gallia scoff,
God bless their pig-tails, though they’re now cut off;
And, oh! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel,
England’s prime minister, then bless the devil!
——:o:——
GEORGE BARNWELL
In Bishop Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry is the Ballad having this title, which the Bishop states had been printed at least as early as the middle of the 17th century. Upon this Ballad, George Lillo, the dramatist, founded a tragedy, entitled “The London Merchant, or the History of George Barnwell,” which was first performed at Drury Lane Theatre, in 1731. Lillo departed from the ballad by making Barnwell die repentant, thereby spoiling his dramatic character, and the piece was faulty in other respects, yet it held the stage for many years, and Mrs. Siddons frequently performed the part of the fair but naughty Millwood, and Charles Kemble was considered the best Barnwell ever seen on the boards.
At the time, therefore, that Rejected Addresses were written, and for many years afterwards, George Barnwell was a piece thoroughly familiar to London playgoers, consequently it was quite natural that the topic should be selected for a burlesque, and the following was written by James Smith:—
George Barnwell.
George Barnwell stood at the shop-door,
A customer hoping to find, sir;
His apron was hanging before,
But the tail of his coat was behind, sir.
A lady, so painted and smart,
Cried, Sir, I’ve exhausted my stock o’ late;
I’ve got nothing left but a groat—
Could you give me four penn’orth of chocolate?
Rum ti, &c.
Her face was rouged up to the eyes,
Which made her look prouder and prouder;
His hair stood on end with surprise,
And hers with pomatum and powder.
The business was soon understood;
The lady, who wish’d to be more rich,
Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood,
And I lodge at the Gunner’s in Shoreditch.
Rum ti, &c.
Now nightly he stole out, good lack!
And into her lodging would pop, sir!
And often forgot to come back,
Leaving Master to shut up the shop, sir.
Her beauty his wits did bereave—
Determined to be quite the crack O,
He lounged at the Adam and Eve,
And call’d for his gin and tobacco.
Rum ti, &c.
And now—for the truth must be told,
Though none of a ’prentice should speak ill—
He stole from the till all the gold,
And ate the lump sugar and treacle.
In vain did his master exclaim,
Dear George, don’t engage with that dragon;
She’ll lead you to sorrow and shame,
And leave you the devil a rag on,
Your rum ti, &c.
In vain he entreats and implores,
The weak and incurable ninny,
So kicks him at last out of doors,
And Georgy soon spends his last guinea.
His uncle, whose generous purse
Had often relieved him, as I know,
Now finding him grow worse and worse,
Refused to come down with the rhino.
Rum ti, &c.
Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart’s core
Was so flinty that nothing could shock it,
If ye mean to come here any more,
Pray come with more cash in your pocket:
Make Nunky surrender his dibs,
Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels,
Or stick a knife into his ribs—
I’ll warrant he’ll then show some bowels.
Rum ti, &c.
A pistol he got from his love—
’Twas loaded with powder and bullet;
He trudged off to Camberwell Grove,
But wanted the courage to pull it.
There’s Nunky as fat as a hog,
While I am as lean as a lizard;
Here’s at you, you stingy old dog!
And he whips a long knife in his gizzard.
Rum ti, &c.
All you who attend to my song,
A terrible end of the farce shall see,
If you join the inquisitive throng
That follow’d poor George to the Marshalsea.
If Milwood were here, dash my wigs,
Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well;
Had I stuck to my prunes and figs,
I ne’er had stuck Nunky at Camberwell.
Rum ti, &c.
Their bodies were never cut down;
For granny relates with amazement,
A witch bore ’em over the town,
And hung them on Thorowgood’s casement.
The neighbours, I’ve heard the folks say,
The miracle noisily brag on;
And the shop is, to this very day,
The sign of the George and the Dragon.
Rum ti, &c.
In 1858 the late Mr. Shirley Brooks chose this burlesque as the basis of a parody he composed on the ecclesiastical procedure adopted by Samuel Wilberforce, then Bishop of Oxford. It contains nothing more offensive to religion than the somewhat familiar address to the Bishop as Soapy Sam, the origin of which sobriquet is lost in doubt. It is said, that when asked its meaning by a lady, Bishop Wilberforce replied, “I believe they call me ‘Soapy Sam’ because I am so often in hot water, and always come out with clean hands.”
Sam.
A Melancholy but Instructive Narrative, Founded on Facts,
and on James Smith’s “George Barnewell”
Sam Soapey stood at his Palace door,
Promotion hoping to find, Sir;
His Apron it hung down before,
And the tail of his wig behind, Sir.
A Lady, so painted and smart,
Cried “Pardon my little transgression,
But I know what is next to your heart,
Now, what do you think of Confession?”
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.
Her face was rouged up to the eyes,
And red was her ladyship’s toggery,
And folks who are thought to be wise,
Recognised a professor of roguery.
A bundle of Keys at her waist—
Says she, “I can help you, Sir, that I can,
In the South I am very much graced,
And I live at a place called the Vatican.”
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.
Her language his wits did bereave,
She proceeded to carney and gabble on,
And at last (which you’d hardly believe)
He smirked at the Lady of Babylon.
Says he, “I should get in a scrape,
Could my late and respectable Sire hark;
He’d frown should a Wilberforce ape
A sleek Ultramontanist hierarch.”
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.
Says she, “Don’t be frightened at names,
You’ve always to Rome had a tendency!
Stand up for Confession; your game’s
To struggle for priestly ascendency.
Cut the priest a back-way to the house,
And you’ve cut through the Isthmus of Darien:
Fathers, husbands, are not worth a souse
After that, my fine stout-legged Tractarian.”
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.
* * * * *
This counsel he took from his love,
And in Parliament’s very next Session
He pleaded, with voice of a dove,
For “the excellent rite called Confession.”
But Premiers are wary, and they can see
Whom ’tis expedient to fish up;
Lo! an archiepiscopal vacancy,
And Sam is not made an Archbishop.
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.
“If that Woman were here, dash my wigs.”
Cried he, “I’d come Luther and Knox at her,
I’d slate the old mother of prigs,
And raise my episcopal vox at her.
I fancied I’d made such a rare book,
And now I’m in just the wrong box for ’t;
Had I struck to my Anglican Prayer-book,
H should not have stuck Bishop of Oxford.”
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.
Moral.
(Too obvious to need telling.)
The burlesque of George Barnwell is the last of the poetical extracts that need be quoted from The Rejected Addresses. Those already given in this collection consist of the imitations of W. T. Fitzgerald, William Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, Robert Southey, Walter Scott, M. G. Lewis, S. T. Coleridge and George Crabbe. Those not given consist of a few prose imitations (William Cobbett and Dr. Johnson), and two or three parodies of second-rate and almost forgotten authors.
MISSIONARY HYMN.
(By Dr. Reginald Heber, 1783-1826,)
From Greenland’s icy mountains,
From India’s coral strand,
Where Afric’s sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a balmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error’s chain.
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft on Ceylon’s isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile;
In vain, with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strewn,
The Heathen in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.
* * * * *
Song by Prince Gortschakoff.
From Cashmere’s icy mountains,
From Bombay’s coral strand,
Where Cawnpore’s sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many a Punjab river,
From groves where fire-flies flame,
To make us Russians shiver,
The Indian regiments came.
In ships across the ocean,
The dusky warrior steam’d.
’Twas Beaconsfield’s own notion,
And this is what he dream’d:
That at the apparition
Of cut-throats such as these,
My master would petition
For mercy on his knees.
Yes, he was so benighted
This Earl, who governs you,
To think we should be frighted,
At his assorted crew.
Sensation, too, sensation!
That also was his game;
And o’er the British nation
The Jingo spirit came.
Tell, his’try, tell the story,
Whilst future ages jeer,
Of how to gain fresh glory
He brought these Indians here.
And how, when once at Malta,
They back again were sped;
Whilst England paid for carriage
A hundred pounds per head!
Truth Christmas Number. December 1879.
To English Women Missionaries.
From Greenland’s icy mountains,
From India’s coral strand,
Comes no distinct appealing
For England’s helping hand;
The poor benighted savage
Compelled unclothed to dwell,
Without our cost-price Bibles
Enjoys life very well.
What though the spicy breezes
Are very nice and dry,
And every prospects pleases
A missionary eye?
In vain with lavish kindness
The Gospel tracts are strewn,
The heathen in his blindness
Does better left alone.
A happy, soulless creature,
He lives his little day;
Directly on conversion,
It seems, ensues decay.
Why seek the cheerful heathen
To tell him he is vile?
Ah, leave him gay and godless
Upon his palmy isle.
* * * * *
From England’s greatest city,
Through all her pomp and pride,
One bitter cry rings ever,
Unsilenced, undenied:
From Stepney’s crowded alleys,
From Bethnal Green’s close lanes,
Men call us to deliver
Souls from the Devil’s chains.
O women! sister women—
Do you not hear the cry
Of these who sin and suffer—
Are damned in life, and die:
Of these whose lives are withered,
Whose youth is trampled down,
The victims and the scourges
Of every Christian town?
By life that is—and is not—
By life that is to be,
By baby lips yet speechless,
By all life’s misery—
They call: their lives adjure you
By all your lives hold dear—
What foreign mission calls you?
Your mission work is here!
E. Nesbit.
The Weekly Dispatch. July 10, 1887.
A New War Song.
From Chatham’s pleasant mountains,
From Aldershot’s bare plain,
Where the British flag floats proudly,
And the lion shakes his mane.
From barracks and from messroom
Resounds the bugle’s notes,
Calling to arms, to cross the seas
And cut some heathen throats.
What tho’ from every pulpit
We daily Christ proclaim
And bend before the Prince of Peace,
And worship in His name,
In vain in adoration
We bow before the throne,
These heathens are possessed of lands
That we must make our own.
Blow, gently blow, ye breezes,
Let the war smoke upward curl
While bathed in blood and glory
Stands forth our Premier Earl;
But weep, oh! weep for England,
And bow the head in shame,
For sullied is her honour,
And tarnished is her name.
J. C. A.
The Bath Herald. May, 1879.
