Ode to Jacobinism, a political parody of Gray’s Hymn to Adversity.
The Jacobin, a political skit, written in imitation of Southey’s Sapphics, but not so good as the examples already quoted, and dealing with obsolete facts and forgotten individuals.
Ode to a Jacobin, in imitation of Suckling’s Ode to a Lover.
The Anti-Jacobin also contained several humorous imitations of Horace, and a burlesque play, founded on some German dramas, translations of which were then being performed in England to the detriment, and discouragement of English dramatists. The greater portion of this amusing work was written by Canning, it was entitled “The Rovers; or, the Double Arrangement,” and has passages which parody The Robbers, and several other plays by Schiller: Stella by Goethe, and Count Benyowsky, or, the Conspiracy of Kamschatka.
The Rovers.
The second scene of the first act contains the gem of the burlesque. It opens thus:—
Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh with coffins, escutcheons, death’s heads, and cross-bones,—toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of the stage.—Rogero appears, in chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head—beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance.—A long silence, during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns.—Rogero rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded.
Rogero. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living sepulchre, the cruelty of a Minister—the perfidy of a Monk—yes, Matilda! for thy sake—alive amidst the dead—chained—coffined—confined—cut off from the converse of my fellowmen. Soft! what have we here? (stumbles over a bundle of sticks.) Oh! the register of my captivity. Let me see; how stands the account? Eleven years and fifteen days!—Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my Matilda. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her more.… Soft, what air was that! it seems a sound of more than human warblings. Again, (listens attentively for some minutes.) Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that melancholy air, which has so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar.
(Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air, with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra. Air, Lanterna Magica.
Song.