Chapter IX: Preface (9)

Awake! she cried, thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight grave:
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refused to save.

This is the dark and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.

Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break.

Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips no longer red:
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death,
And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.

But hark! the cock has warned me hence;
A long and last adieu!
Come see, false man, how low she lies,
Who died for love of you.

The lark sung loud; the morning smiled
With beams of rosy red;
Pale William quaked in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret’s body lay;
And stretched him on the green-grass turf
That wrapped her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret’s name,
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more!

A Latin version of this ballad was written by Mr. Vincent Bourne, entitled _Thyrsis et Chloe_. It can readily be found in his works, but the following anonymous French translation is not so well known:――

“L’OMBRE DE MARGUERITE.”

Dans la nuit, à l’heure effrayante
Où l’airain frémit douze fois,
Des spectres la famille errante
Sort des tombeaux à cette voix.
Edmond, que le remords agite,
Cherchait le sommeil, qui le fuit:
L’ombre pâle de Marguerite
Vient s’asseoir au pied de son lit.

Regarde, Edmond, c’est moi, dit-elle,
Moi qui t’aimais, que tu trompas,
Moi dont la tendresse fidèle
Vit encore apprès le trépas.
J’en ai cru ta fausse promesse,
Je t’ai fait maître de mon sort;
Hélas! pour prix de ma tendresse
Fallait-il me donner la mort?

Jadis de la rose naissante
J’avais l’éclat et la fraîcheur:
Pourquoi sur sa tige brillante
Ton souffle a-t-il séché la fleur?
Mes yeux brillaient de tant de charmes,
Ingrat, alors que tu m’aimais;
Pourquoi donc les noyer de larmes,
Pourquoi les fermer à jamais.

Hier dans un palais superbe,
Aujourd’hui dans un noir cercueil;
Mon asile est caché sous l’herbe,
Et ma parure est un linceul.
De quel forfait suis-je victime?
J’aimai, j’ai cru l’être mon tour;
Qui me punit d’un pareil crime?
L’objet même de mon amour.

De ton inconstance cruelle
Le jour fut à tous deux fatal;
Quand ton cœur devint infidèle,
Edmond, il se connaissait mal:
Tu m’abandonnes, je succombe;
Mais enchaîné par le destin,
Le remords vient d’ouvrir ma tombe;
Tu dois y descendre demain.

J’entends le coq; sa voix encore
Pour nous est un signal d’effroi;
Je ne dois plus revoir l’aurore,
Et c’est la dernière pour toi!
Adieu. Celle qui te fut chère
Te plaint, te pardonne, et t’attend...
L’ombre à ces mots perce la terre,
Et disparaît en gémissant.

Edmond immobile, en silence,
A vu ce prodige effrayant:
De son lit soudain il s’élance,
Défiguré, pâle et tremblant.
Il court, il cherche Marguerite;
Sa voix s’échappe en cris aigus;
Sur sa tombe il se précipite;
On le relève: il n’était plus!

――――

DR. JOHNSON’S GHOST.[4]

’Twas at the solemn hour of night,
When men and spirits meet,
That Johnson, huge majestic sprite,
Repaired to Boswell’s feet.

His face was like the full-orb’d moon
Wrapt in a threatening cloud,
That bodes the tempest bursting soon,
And winds that bluster loud.

Terrific was his angry look,
His pendent eyebrows frown’d;
Thrice in his hand he waved a book,
Then dashed it to the ground.

“Behold,” he cry’d “perfidious man!
This object of my rage:
Bethink thee of the sordid plan
That form’d this venal page.

“Was it to make this base record
That you my friendship sought;
Thus to retain each vagrant word,
Each undigested thought?

“Dar’st thou pretend that, meaning praise,
Thou seek’st to raise my name;
When all thy babbling pen betrays
But gives me churlish fame?

“Do readers in these annals trace
The man that’s wise and good?
No!――rather one of savage race,
Illib’ral, fierce, and rude:

“A traveller, whose discontent
No kindness can appease;
Who finds for spleen perpetual vent
In all he hears and sees:

“One whose ingratitude displays
The most ungracious guest;
Who hospitality repays
With bitter, biting jest.

“Ah! would, as o’er the hills we sped,
And climb’d the sterile rocks,
Some vengeful stone had struck thee dead,
Or steeple, spar’d by Knox!

“Thy adulation now I see,
And all its schemes unfold:
Thy av’rice, Boswell, cherish’d me,
To turn me into gold.

“So keepers guard the beasts they show,
And for their wants provide;
Attend their steps where’er they go,
And travel by their side.

“O! were it not that, deep and low,
Beyond thy reach I’m laid,
Rapacious Boswell had e’er now
Johnson a mummy made.”

He ceased, and stalk’d from Boswell’s sight
With fierce indignant mien,
Scornful as Ajax, sullen sprite,
By Sage Ulysses seen.

Dead paleness Boswell’s cheek o’erspread,
His limbs with horror shook;
With trembling haste he left his bed,
And burnt his fatal book.

And thrice he called on Johnson’s name,
Forgiveness to implore!
Then thrice repeated――“Injured fame!”
And word――wrote never more.

――――

The following ballad, which was once very popular among the lower orders, is said to be founded on “William and Margaret”:――

GILES SCROGGIN’S GHOST.

Giles Scroggin courted Molly Brown,
The fairest wench in all our town,
Fol de riddle lol, de riddle lido.
He bought her a ring with a posy true,
If you loves me, as I loves you,
No knife can cut our loves in two.
Fol de riddle, etc.

But scissors cuts, as well as knives,
And quite unsartain’s all our lives,
Fol de riddle, etc.
The day they were to have been wed,
Fate’s scissors cut poor Giles’s thread,
So they could not be mar――ri――ed.
Fol de riddle, etc.

Poor Molly laid her down to weep,
And cried herself quite fast asleep,
Fol de riddle, etc.
When standing fast by her bed-post,
A figure tall her sight engrossed,
It cried, “I be Giles Scroggin’s ghost,”
Fol de riddle, etc.

The ghost it said all solemnly,
“Oh! Molly, you must go with I,
Fol de riddle, etc.
All to the grave your love to cool.”
Says she, “Why, I’m not dead, you fool,”
Says the ghost, says he, “Vy, that’s no rule.”
Fol de riddle, etc.

The ghost then seized her all so grim,
All for to go along with him,
Fol de riddle, etc.
“Come, come,” said he, “e’er morning beam.”
“I von’t,” says she, and screamed a scream,
Then she awoke, and found she’d dream’d a dream.
Fol de riddle, de riddle lido.

A POLISHED VERSION.

Young Giles the fair Maria wooed;
Flower of the village maidenhood;
Heigho, alack, and well-a-day!
His pledge this legend bore inlaid,――
Love, that two hearts hath mutual made,
Defies the knife of keenest blade;
Heigho! &c.

But keen, alas! as knives are shears
And dubious all our fleeting years,
Heigho! &c.
The morn that should have made them one,
Fate’s shears the bridegroom’s thread outspun,
Sever’d; and bridal there was none,
Heigho! &c.

Maria sought her couch to weep;
Till grief, exhausted, sank in sleep:
Heigho! &c.
When stood, her lonely pillow nigh,
A figure more than mortal high;
And cried――“Behold, my love, ’tis I”
Heigho! &c.

All solemnly the spirit said,
“Away with me unto the dead,”
Heigho! &c.
“To cool thy passion in the tomb!”
――“What, ere my days of earthly doom?”
“No matter!” cried the shape of gloom,
Heigho! &c.

Grimly the phantom clutch’d the fair,
To death’s dark realm his prize to bear,
Heigho! &c.
“Hence! hence!” he cried, “ere morning’s light;”
“Begone!” she shriek’d, and with the fright
Woke. ’Twas a vision of the night.
Heigho! &c.

_Punch._ April 13, 1844.

The Rev. George Crabbe.

Born December 24, 1754. Died Feb. 3, 1832.

Although the works of this author are now but little read, they were widely popular at the time when the brothers Smith produced _The Rejected Addresses_ in 1812, and naturally Mr. Crabbe’s poetry came in for imitation. Indeed this particular imitation was singled out by Lord Jeffrey as being the best piece in the collection. “It is,” said he, “an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author (Crabbe), and can hardly be said to be in any respect a caricature of that style or manner, except in the excessive profusion of puns and verbal jingles, which are never so thick sown in the original works as in this admirable imitation.”

Even Mr. Crabbe, himself, was amused, he wrote “There is a little ill-nature in their prefatory address; but in their versification they have done me admirably, yet it is easier to imitate style than to furnish matter.”

From this it will be gathered that the prose introduction is as much a parody as the poem, both of which were written by James Smith, who gives the following lines as a fair sample of Mr. Crabbe’s versification:――

“Six years had pass’d and forty ere the six,
When time began to play his usual tricks;
My locks, once comely in a virgin’s sight,
Locks of pure brown, now felt th’ encroaching white;
Gradual each day I liked my horses less,
My dinner more――I learn’t to play at chess.”

and as to his jingling style he mentions that Crabbe thus describes a thrifty house-wife:――

“Heaven in her eye, and in her hand her keys.”

THE THEATRE.

_A Preface of Apologies._

If the following poem should be fortunate enough to be selected for the opening address, a few words of explanation may be deemed necessary, on my part, to avert invidious misrepresentation. The animadversion I have thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning the orchestra, will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to any of the gentlemen employed in the band. It is to be desired that they would keep their instruments ready tuned, and strike off at once. This would be an accommodation to many well-meaning persons who frequent the theatre, who, not being blest with the ear of St. Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, and think the latter concluded before it is begun.

“――――――――one fiddle will
Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still,”

was originally written “one hautboy will;” but, having providentially been informed, when this poem was on the point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and managerial indignation from the head of its blower: as it now stands, “one fiddle” among many, the faulty individual will, I hope, escape detection. The story of the flying play-bill is calculated to expose a practice much too common, of pinning play-bills to the cushions insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these lines save one play-bill only from the fate I have recorded, I shall not deem my labour ill-employed. The concluding episode of Patrick Jennings glances at the boorish fashion of wearing the hat in the one-shilling gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet at the commencement of the play, he might have leaned forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate would not have occurred. The line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him to recover his loss is purposely so crossed in texture and materials as to mislead the reader in respect to the real owner of any one of them. For in the statistical view of life and manners which I occasionally present, my clerical profession has taught me how extremely improper it would be, by any allusion, however slight, to give any uneasiness, however trivial, to any individual, however foolish or wicked.

G. C.

THE THEATRE.

Interior of a Theatre described.――Pit gradually fills.――The
Check-taker.――Pit full.――The Orchestra tuned.――One fiddle rather
dilatory.――Is reproved――and repents.――Evolutions of a
Play-bill.――Its final settlement on the Spikes.――The Gods taken to
task――and why.――Motley Group of Play-goers.――Holywell Street, St.
Pancras.――Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice――not in
London――and why.――Episode of the Hat.

’Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touch’d by the lamplighter’s Promethian art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start;
To see red Phœbus through the gallery-pane
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane;
While gradual parties fill our widen’d pit,
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,
Distant or near, they settle where they please;
But when the multitude contracts the span,
And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

Now the full benches to late-comers doom
No room for standing, miscall’d _standing room_.

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,
And bawling “Pit full!” gives the check he takes;
Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,
Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,
And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

See to their desks Apollo’s sons repair――
Swift rides the rosin o’er the horse’s hair!
In unison their various tones to tune,
Murmers the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;
In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,
Tang goes the harpsicord, too-too the flute,
Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,
Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tinkling harp;
Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,
Attunes to order the chaotic din.
Now all seems hush’d――but no, one fiddle will
Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.
Foil’d in his crash, the leader of the clan
Reproves with frowns the dilatory man:
Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,
Nods a new signal, and away they go.

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, “Hats off!”
And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,
Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love
Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above:
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;
But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,
And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;
Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,
It settles, curling, on a fiddler’s curl;
Who from his powder’d pate the intruder strikes,
And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?
Who’s that calls “Silence!” with such leathern lungs?
He who, in quest of quiet, “Silence!” hoots,
Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

What various swains our motley walls contain!――
Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark,
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,
With pence twice five――they want but twopence more;
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,
And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

_Hard is the task who edits――thankless job._[5]
A Sunday journal for the fractious mob:
With bitter paragraph and caustic jest,
He gives to turbulence the day of rest;
Condemn’d, this week, rash rancour to instil,
Or thrown aside, the next, for one who will:
Alike undone or if he praise or rail
(For this affects his safety, that his sale)
He sinks at last, in luckless limbo set,
If loud for libel, and if dumb for debt._

Critics we boast who ne’er their malice baulk,
But talk their minds――we wish they’d mind their talk;
Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live――
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;
Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary,
That for old clothes they’d even axe St. Mary;
And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait;
Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow,
Where scowling Fortune seem’d to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer
Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;
But when John Dwyer listed in the blues,
Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs’s shoes.
Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy
Up as a corn-cutter――a safe employ;
In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred
(At number twenty-seven, it is said),
Facing the pump, and near the Granby’s Head:
He would have bound him to some shop in town,
But with a premium he could not come down.
Pat was the urchin’s name――a red-hair’d youth,
Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,
The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat:
Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
And spurn’d the one to settle in the two,
How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door,
Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,
And gain his hat again at half-past eight?
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,
John Mullins whispers, “Take my handkerchief.”
“Thank you,” cries Pat, “but one won’t make a line.”
“Take mine,” cried Wilson, and cried Stokes, “Take mine.”
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
Like Iris’ bow, down darts the painted clue,
Starr’d, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

George Green below, with palpitating hand,
Loops the last ’kerchief to the beaver’s band――
Upsoars the prize! The youth with joy unfeign’d,
Regain’d the felt, and felt what he regain’d;
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touch’d the ransom’d hat.

――――:o:――――

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,
I 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.

The Imperial Institute Ode.

After tremendous efforts to “puff” the so-called “Imperial Institute” scheme into public favour, and when the subscriptions were coming in but slowly, the ceremony of laying the foundation stone was gone through, with all the solemn mummery customary on such occasions. An Ode was necessary, and one was accordingly written by Mr. _Lewis_ Morris, and set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan. The Ode contained the usual commonplaces, expressed in language more than usually dull and meaningless, as the following extracts will suffice to show:――

I.

With soaring voice and solemn music sing,
High to Heaven’s gate let pealing trumpets ring!
To-day our hands consolidate
The Empire of a thousand years.
Delusive hopes, distracting fears,
Have passed, and left her great,
For Britain, Britain, we our jubilant anthems raise,
Uplift your voices all, worthy is she of praise!

III.

No more we seek our Realm’s increase
By War’s red rapine, but by white-winged Peace;
To-day we seek to bind in one,
Till all our Britain’s work be done――
Through wider knowledge closer grown,
As each fair sister by the rest is known,
And mutual Commerce, mighty to efface
The envious bars of Time and Place,
Deep-pulsing from a common heart
And through a common speech expressed――
From North to South, from East to West,
Our great World Empire’s every part;
A universal Britain strong
To raise up Right and beat down Wrong――
Let this thing be! who shall our Realm divide?
Ever we stand together, Kinsmen, side by side!

V.

First Lady of our British Race!
’Tis well that with thy peaceful Jubilee
This glorious dream begins to be,
This thy lost Consort would, this would thy Son,
Who has seen all thy Empire face to face
And fain would leave it One,
Oh, may the Hand which rules our Fate
Keep this our Britain great!
We cannot tell, we can but pray
Heaven’s blessing on our work to-day.
Uprise, oh, Palace fair, where every eye may see
This proud embodied Unity!
For Britain and our Queen one voice we raise,
Laud them, rejoice, peal forth, worthy are they of praise!

THE INAUGURAL ODE AS IT OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN.
(_With Apologies to Mr. Lewis Morris._)

With partial pomp and sounding bands of brass,
And Royalties――both first and second class――,
To-day the Queen, in semi-state,
Consents a project to befriend
Which for so long seemed doomed to end
In a fiasco great!
But at last, at last, the Prince his labour finds repaid――
The Imperial Institute’s foundation stone is laid!

When first the grasping “Gang” its birth decreed,
And greedily made Kensington its site,
The project’s progress was but small, indeed,
And the subscriptions strangely light.
And though the Prince to the occasion rose,
And summoned all the Mayors to town;
Though hints of knighthood, too, were given to those
Who’d put their names for large donations down;
Though soldiers, too, and sailors, side by side,
Were fiercely dunned throughout the Empire wide;
Though everywhere subscription-lists were sent,
O’er stormy sea, through distant continent;
And though, worked artfully from Kensington,
The “screw” was universally put on,
The Empire set itself against the craze,
And the new Institute was loath to raise.

But was the “Gang” disheartened? Nay;
It persevered, and gathered here to-day,
Where “jobs” have in the past been done,
It sees, we fear, one more begun,
For, spite of all that has been said,
Upon this latest subject light to shed;
Spite of the promises which have been made
That the new Institute shall foster trade;
Spite, too, official zest and skill,
And of the fervent hopes express’d,
From North to South, from East to West,
That it will some good end fulfil,
And make the Empire yet more strong,
We fear such hopes will all prove wrong,
And that this building, with its tower so tall,
Will only be the biggest “job” of all!

Yet do we dare to-day,
As in this solemn rite we here engage,
To hope the future will our fears gainsay,
And make this place a glorious heritage
For all our people, and a source of strength
Throughout the teeming Empire’s breadth and length.
But, if we this would see,
Then, by a stern decree,
This Institute must be forthwith set free
From greed and jobbery!
Those who would batten on it must be told
At once to loose their hold,
So that it may uprise a Palace free and fair,
In whose great benefits an Empire wide may share.

First Lady of our British Race,
We’ll Hope that with thy peaceful Jubilee
We of this dream may a fulfilment see,
For this, were thy lost Consort with us still,
Yon scene of pomp and pageantry to grace,
Would surely be _his_ will;
And this we fain would trust thy son,
Undoing what he’s done,
Will also help fulfil.
Time this must show, but we can pray
That higher motives from to-day
May strengthen those who execute
The business of the Institute;
That from to-day its end and aim
May be the country’s wealth and fame.
That flunkeys, toadies, snobs may find
It is not for _their_ sake designed;
Whilst Kensington, forced to admit
It has no lot nor part in it,
No more will claim to such extent
What is for all the Empire meant.
Then will the Palace fair, by patriotism planned,
Be hailed a glory of the land,
And, as the Empire joins its walls to raise,
Its people, one and all, will loudly sound its praise.

_Truth._ July 7, 1887.

Mr. Lewis Morris was rewarded for his ode by a silver Jubilee medal, with permission to wear it on public occasions. Some time afterwards he wrote to a Manchester newspaper complaining that people confounded him with Mr. _William_ Morris, the poet and socialist, on which _The Star_ published the following

POET AND POETASTER.

If this kind of thing goes on, Sir, I shall have to change my name;
’Tis an odious position to be in;
Though the other Mr. Morris may be better known to fame,
I am Mr. Lewis Morris, of Penbryn.

He was christened after Shakespeare, but his other name is mine;
Yet, though critics are so quick at me to quiz,
I can honestly asseverate I never wrote a line
That could fairly be compared with one of his.

When I wrote an ode to praise the life our precious Prince has led,
Though I must confess it fell a little flat,
There were certain silly editors who ignorantly said
Mr. William had been capable of that.

Now I happen to be certain it would take him all his time
To indite an ode on Royalty’s affairs,
For disloyalty to Princes isn’t reckoned any crime,
’Mong the people whose society he shares.

In a word he is a poet, and a Socialist to boot,
One whose company ’tis wiser to eschew;
For although I am a person of importance and repute,
It is certain I am neither of the two.

J. L. J.

THE TWINS.

In form of feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother
That folks got taking me for him
And each for one another,
It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reach’d an awful pitch:
For one of us was born a twin
And not a soul knew which.

* * * * *

The whole of this amusing poem will be found in _Carols of Cockayne_ by Mr. Henry S. Leigh.

Mr. Leigh died early in June, 1883, and the following graceful parody of his poem appeared in _Judy_, June 27, 1883.

IN THE STRAND.

In form and feature, face, and limb,
He tried to build a double,
And folks got taking it for him,
For want of taking trouble.
“A bitter-minded cynic this!”
Said those who argued blindly.
He took their finding not amiss,
Nor thought it meant unkindly.

He dreamed long dreams, and meant to do
A heap of great grand work;
’T is p’r’aps the same with me and you,
And still the race we shirk.
Another face gone from the Strand,
A voice we hear no more;
We miss the pressure of a hand,
Oft pressed on this LEIGH shore.

――――:o:――――

NURSERY RHYMES.

A learned dissertation might be written――entitled “The Wisdom of our Nursery Rhymes”――which should go to prove that every important Rhyme was either founded on some historical basis, or illustrated an old custom of our forefathers long since fallen into oblivion.

Such an essay would be out of place here, but a few notes will be inserted to show the undoubted antiquity of such of the principal Nursery Rhymes as have given rise to the Parodies to be quoted.

Parodies of Nursery Rhymes exist in such numbers that only a small percentage can be inserted, especially as some of the best are of a political and personal nature, and rapidly become obsolete.

The selection has been made as carefully and impartially as possible, with indications as to where such other Parodies may be found as have had to be omitted.

――――

Some of our Nursery Rhymes owe their origin to names distinguished in our literature; as Oliver Goldsmith, for instance, is believed in his earlier days to have written such compositions. Dr. E. F. Rimbault gives the following particulars as to some well-known favourites; “Sing a Song of Sixpence,” he states, is as old as the 16th century. “The Frog and the Mouse” was licensed in 1580. “London Bridge is broken Down” is of unfathomed antiquity. “Girls and Boys come out to Play” is certainly as old as the reign of Charles II.; as is also “Lucy Locket lost her Pocket,” to the tune of which the American song of “Yankee Doodle” was written. “Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?” is of the age of Queen Bess. “Little Jack Horner” is older than the seventeenth century. “The Old Woman Tossed in a Blanket” is of the reign of James II., to which monarch it is supposed to allude.

J. O. Halliwell, in his “Nursery Rhymes of England,” gives the following:――

Three blind mice, see how they run!
They all ran after the farmer’s wife,
Who cut off their tails with the carving knife,
Did you ever see such fools in your life?
Three blind mice.

and states that the original is to be found in “Deuteromelia; or, the Second Part of Músicks Melodie,” 4to., London, 1609, where the music is also given.

Many other instances of the antiquity of these rhymes will be found under their respective headings.

Amongst the works on Nursery Rhymes which have been consulted, the following may be recommended to those who take an interest in their origin and history.

_The Nursery Rhymes of England_, collected by James Orchard
Halliwell. London. J. R. Smith. 1844.

_Arundines Cami_, edited by Henry Drury, A.M. Cambridge, 1841. This
contains Latin translations of many Nursery Rhymes, of which a
few are given in the following pages.

_Nursery Rhymes Revised._ By J. W. Palmer, 281, Strand, London,
1885.

_A Paper on Nursery Rhymes_, by Alfonzo Gardiner, see parts VIII. &
IX. _Yorkshire Notes and Queries_, 1887.

_The Gladstone Umbrella_, or Political Dainties. An illustrated
pamphlet, curious as having been published (in 1885) by Mr.
Bernard Quaritch, whose name seldom appears in connection with
anything so ephemeral as a political skit.

_The People’s William._ London. W. H. Allen & Co.

Parody Competitions on Nursery Rhymes――

_Truth_――October 15, 1885; September 30, 1886; June 14, 1888; June
28, 1888.

_The Weekly Dispatch_――April 13, 1884; July 5, 1885; October 2,
1887.

_One and All_――Various dates, from 1879 to 1881. These were all
political, and are now of no interest.

――――:o:――――

THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
* * * * *
This is the farmer sowing his corn,
That kept the cock that crow’d in the morn
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tatter’d and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

Very few would suspect that “The House that Jack built” is a comparatively modern version of an ancient Jewish hymn, sung at the feast of the Passover. Yet such is the case, according to the late Dr. Halliwell Phillips, who gives the following translation of the allegorical Talmudic Hymn, taken from _Sepher Haggadah_, folio 23. This, he says, was first translated by Professor P. N. Leberecht, of Leipsic, in 1731. The original, from which the Hebrew version was translated, is in the Chaldaic language.

1. A _kid_, a kid my father bought,
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.

2. Then came the _cat_ and ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.

3. Then came the _dog_, and bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.

4. Then came the _staff_, and beat the dog
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought,
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.

5. Then came the _fire_, and burned the staff
That beat the dog, _&c._,――as before.

6. Then came the _water_ and quenched the fire.
That burned the staff,
That beat the dog, _&c._

7. Then came the _ox_, and drank the water,
That quenched the fire, _&c._

8. Then came the _butcher_ and slew the ox
That drank the water, _&c._

9. Then came the _Angel of death_
And killed the butcher
That slew the ox, _&c._

10. Then came the _Holy One_, blessed be He,
And killed the Angel of death
That killed the butcher
That slew the ox
That drank the water
That quenched the fire
That burned the staff
That beat the dog
That bit the cat
That ate the kid
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.

_The following is an interpretation of the allegory_:――

1. The Kid which is one of the pure animals denotes the Hebrews. The father, by whom it is purchased, is Jehovah, who represents himself as sustaining this relation to the Hebrew nation. The pieces of money signify Moses and Aaron, through whose medium the Hebrews were brought out of Egypt.

2. The Cat denotes the Assyrians by whom the ten tribes were carried into captivity.

3. The dog is symbolical of the Babylonians.

4. The staff signified the Persians.

5. The fire indicates the Grecian Empire under Alexander the Great.

6. The water betokens the Romans, or the fourth of the great monarchies to whom the Jews were subjected.

7. The ox is a symbol of the Saracens who subdued Palestine, and brought it under the Caliphate.

8. The butcher that killed the ox denotes the Crusaders by whom the Holy Land was wrested out of the hands of the Saracens.

9. The Angel of death signifies the Turkish powers by which the land of Palestine was taken from the Franks, to whom it is still subject.

10. The commencement of the tenth stanza is designed to show that God will take signal vengeance on the Turks, immediately after whose overthrow the Jews are to be restored to their own land, and live under the Government of their long expected Messiah.

A somewhat similar accumulative poem to the “House that Jack built” is mentioned in Chodzko’s _Popular Poetry of Persia_; it runs thus:――

“I went upon the mountain top to tend my flock. Seeing there
a girl, I said, ‘Lass, give me a kiss.’ She said, ‘Lad, give
me some money.’ I said, ‘The money is in the purse, the
purse in the wallet, the wallet on the camel, and the camel
in Kerman.’ She said, ‘You wish for a kiss, but the kiss
lies behind my teeth, my teeth are locked up, the key is
with my mother, and my mother, like your camel, is in
Kerman.’”

Sir Richard Burton also gives a translation of an old Arab story called

THE DROP OF HONEY.

Many years ago a hunter found a hollow tree full of bees’ honey, some of which he took home in a water-skin. In the city he sold the honey to an oilman, but in emptying out the honey from the skin, a drop fell to the ground, whereupon the flies flocked to it, and a bird swooped down from the sky upon the flies. Then the oilman’s cat springs upon the bird, and the hunter’s dog flies at the cat, and the oilman kills the dog, and the hunter kills the oilman. Then the men of the respective tribes took up the quarrel, and fight, till there died of them much people, none knoweth their number save almighty Allah!

――――

This favourite nursery rhyme has been more frequently imitated than any other, and has been especially selected as the model on which to form political squibs and satires.

Some of the principal of these were published by W. Hone (illustrated by George Cruikshank), early in the present century, and referred to the matrimonial squabbles of the Prince of Wales (afterwards George IV.), a topic which possesses so little interest at present that it is not necessary to reprint the parodies. A few of the titles may here be enumerated:――

Loyalists’ House that Jack built.

Real, or Constitutional House that Jack built.

The Queen that Jack found.

The Queen and Magna Charta, or the thing that Jack signed.

The Dorchester Guide, or the House that Jack built.

The Political Queen that Jack loves.

The Political House that Jack built. 1821.[8]

The Theatrical House that Jack built.

“Juvenile reduplications, or the New House that Jack built,” a
Parody, by J. Bisalt, with cuts in the manner of T. Bewick.
Birmingham, 1800.