IV.
From the table now retreating All around the fire they meet, And with wine, the sons of eating, Crown at length their mighty treat; Triumphant Plenty’s rosy graces Sparkle in their jolly faces; And mirth and cheerfulness are seen In each countenance serene. Fill high the sparkling glass, And drink th’ accustom’d toast;[38] Drink deep ye mighty host And let the bottle pass. Begin, begin the jovial strain, Fill, fill the mystic bowl, And drink, and drink, and drink again; For drinking fires the soul. But soon, too soon, with one accord, they reel Each on his seat begins to nod; All conquering Bacchus’ pow’r they feel, And pour libations to the jolly god. At length, with dinner, and with wine, oppress’d, Down in the chairs they sink, and give themselves to rest.
From _The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_. By a Brace of Cantabs. London. Printed for John Hearne, 1824. It had previously appeared in _The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1799_. London, 1800.
――――
ODE TO A WRANGLER’S SPREAD.
’Twas at the roaring feast for _Wrangler_ won, By Wiggin’s tipsy son, As high in lofty state, That classic Hero sate A music stool upon. The large eyed Lucy by his side Blush’d like a codling, Autumn’s pride;―― And spirits; fit to stem the tide Of Fortune’s current rough, Alike her frailties to deride, Or for her many dangers tried, Still ne’er to cry “Enough!” Throng’d round the Hero as he gave The toast in liquor brave, And by his ruling nod Rous’d the huzzas of gladness O’er the blue devils sadness, Waking the drowsy God, That slumber’d in the soul of each, To Wine, to Jollity, and Speech.
* * * * *
From _The Cambridge Odes_, by Peter Persius. Cambridge W. H. Smith. No date.
――――
THE KENNINGTON COMMON REVOLUTION.
’Twas on the Common of famed Kennington, Reynolds (old Reynolds’ son), Aloft in mimic state, Upon a waggon sate―― The driving box his throne. The idle riff-raff stood around, Some of their brows――for recent fractures――bound (So theft and mischief should be crowned). The Chartist, Williams, by his side, With envy his position eyed, As if for chairmanship he sighed. Precious, precious pair! None but the brave, None but the brave Deserve the chair!
Young Reynolds, placed on high, Produces half a quire Of correspondence, which, without desire, He reads, in notes that reach the sky, And shouts of “Hear!” inspire. Note one――bid Sir George Grey, Before a certain day, Leave Ministerial sway, And send the reins of power, straight from his hand, To Mister Reynolds, somewhere in the Strand; When he, of the said reins possessed, Would guide the State himself, in style the very best. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; “A plucky chap this here,!” they shout around, And dabs of mud against the van rebound. With lengthened ears Young Reynolds hears, And thinks, with joy, “Yes I’m the boy That means to shake the spheres.!”
Praise of the French he next in glowing accents sung―― French Freedom――very fair, but very young. But a poor baker’s cart there comes: With their fingers and their thumbs, The mob to their disgrace, (Blush every honest face!) Would fain have stole the bread――the crusts, the crumbs! Freedom, very, very, young, Surely never did ordain Making baker’s carts a treasure, Robbing their contents at pleasure―― Pleasure to the owners’ pain.
To their disgust, the very rain, Resolved such conduct to restrain, Came down as if to say――“You shan’t do that again.” Young Reynolds saw the vast supplies Of rain pour down before his eyes. While he the Government defied, Away he saw the meeting glide He chose a wilder strain To bring them back again. He spoke of France, so great and good; Of Louis-Philippe’s fate, Fall’n, fall’n, fall’n, fall’n; From his high estate, And flying with his brood. Deserted at his utmost need By those who on corruption feed, From his own realm in fear he flies, To England turns his anxious eyes, Still, in the rain, young Reynolds boldly sate, Until there lingered scarce a soul; The wet had cleared the ground below, And down the van he gently stole Thinking――he’d better go.
_Punch_, 1848.
This refers to a meeting held at Kennington in connection with the Chartist agitation, when certain reforms were demanded, which were then ridiculed as revolutionary, but which have since either been granted, or else have come within the scope of practical political discussion.
――――
JOSH HUDSON’S FEAST.
’Twas at the dinner given, the prime tuck-out, By Josh, the boxer stout: Aloft the worthy sat, His corpus lin’d with fat, And, pleas’d, he gaz’d about: His jovial pals were plac’d around, For fancy feats and milling deeds renown’d, And for their fistic worth with glory crown’d. His blooming missus by his side, Smok’d like a hock of bacon fried, In glow of health and beauty’s pride. Happy, happy, happy pair, None but the fat, None but the fat, None but the fat deserves the fair.
Jack Fogo, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, Touch’d with his fives the laureate lyre; The sounds discordant reach’d the sky, And set their souls on fire. Of law he curs’d the rod That sent fat Josh to quod. And swore it was too bad, by G――――! But now at length from durance vile releas’d, With spirit buoyant and in flesh increas’d, He took his seat that happy day the father of the feast. The list’ning coves admir’d the lofty sound, Jolly Josh Hudson’s health they shout around, “The John Bull fighter” all the roofs rebound: With ravish’d ears The fat one hears, Swore it was odd He went to quod. And drank their health with cheers.
The praise of prime old Tom then Fogo sung, A liquor always dear to old and young. Let a dram our dinner crown, To keep the beef and pudding down. Waiter, ’tis Josh’s pleasure, You bring in a gallon measure, The very best and strongest in the town. Spirit ever bright and clear! Who from drinking can refrain? Who can censure without blushing The joy, the extacy of lushing? Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, To imbibe a cordial drain. Pleas’d with its praise fat Josh grew vain, Fought all his battles o’er again, And swore his max was very prime, and better than champagne.
Jack Fogo saw his madness rise, His rosy snout, his staring eyes; And to subdue his furious fit, Swore he would bring him down a bit. He sung a mournful ditty To rouse fat Josh’s pity: He sung of Gyblett’s, boxer prime! By law’s relentless rule Sent to stonejug, and doom’d from thence To cross the herring pool. Deserted, in his utmost need, By all the traps his bounty fed Deprived of max, depriv’d of shag, Without a friend, without a mag. With downcast look the John Bull fighter sate, And gaz’d upon the tuneful bard: “Alack! for Charles, my friend,” cried he; “What! must he go across the sea? ’Tis gallows, gallows hard!”
But Frosty Fogo’s powers began to fail; The sounds he tried to vent Within his throat were pent, Subdu’d by max, and heavy wet, and ale. He, who on eagle’s wing Was wont sublime to soar In fruitless effort still to sing, Pitch’d headlong on the floor!
――――
In November 1884 Mr. Alexander Henderson produced a new comic opera at the Comedy Theatre, London, entitled _The Great Mogul_. In this piece Miss Florence St. John had to appear with live snakes writhing about her, an innovation which was not appreciated by the audience, whilst the songs written by H. B. Farnie, were received with derision. Although the house was packed with the friends of the Lessee, on the opening night (for no money was taken at the doors) the opera met with a very cool reception, and the following parody appeared in _The Referee_ on November 23, 1884:
ALEXANDER’S FIRST. (_With apologies to the late Ingenious Mr. Dryden._)
’Twas at the Royal Comedy (where none But friends of Hender_son_ Were let to pass the gate On first night held in state) This week A. H. got “done.” The folks therein on Monday found Had had free passes to that spot renowned (There was no money’s jingling sound). The gentle Farnie stood aside, And all the preparations eyed With all a mighty author’s pride. And then they cried――that peerless pair “None but our friends, None but our friends, Shall see _our_ first nights, we declare.”
Van Biene, placed on high, Amid his tuneful quire (All wearing swallow-tail attire) ’Gan wave his bâton by-and-by His comrades to inspire. Anon commenced to play (A comic opera, let me say, Penned some time back in Paris gay), And first the “house” did to applause give vent, As up the curtain went. Stalls, boxes, pit, and gallery soon expressed Their joy when Florence entered sweetly dressed.
She charmed them by her voice’s flute-like sound; But later, on the crawling snakes they frowned,―― _That_ exhibition they disgusting found. Their whispered sneer Did Alec hear. But like a god, Assumed to nod As though he felt no fear. The praises of pale ale anon the chords sung. But, strange to say, no sounds of “Encore!” rung. When Leslie through his teeth ’gan hum His pretty air――it worried some. The Song too of the “Steak” Did not applause awake. That lyric, like the rest, in rhythm was so rum. For Farnie to the wings had flung All rules for writing verse ’twas plain, Mostly halting was his measure; (Let him mend it, at his leisure). When a measure Gives no pleasure It is apt to give you pain!
The company worked hard, in vain, But dull and duller grew the strain, And no finale was a “go”――no, weaker did it wane. Then Alec heard the hiss arise Among the “friends” he used to prize. Even the Jingo gags they guyed And H. B. Farnie did deride. A most unequal muse Had Audran stooped to choose. Then Alexander, great and good, Began his teeth to grate―― Galling, galling, galling, galling, Galling was his sorry state, Dismayed, abashed, he stood, Deserted all at once was he By those whom he admitted free, “What! hissed by deadheads!” Alec cried; “What, by my own packed house defied!” Then D’Albertson, the smart and the sedate (With rich moustache with curlèd ends), Said Farnie could not take a call―― “Yah! we don’t want him!” cried the “friends”―― “Ugh! good job too!” did others bawl.
* * * * *
“Revenge!” great Alexander cries; Hear the hisses that arise! E’en the snakes, they ne’er cheered; At most “numbers” they jeered. This ingratitude gives me surprise; Such cheek from _my_ band I cannot understand―― I have used them on first nights again and again But the ads shall remain In their first-arranged vein. I will show all this crew That I know what to do, Though they serve me like this, and thus dare to express _An opinion_, I’ll show I can fight against odds―― I’ll defy all these treacherous pittites and “gods”―― Go, announce it at once: “An Enormous Success!”
* * * * *
Not long ago (Ere Henderson received this blow) I ventured to dispute That A. in this respect was ’cute. I struck my lyre And told him that this dodge few people could admire At last, you see, to spoil his game, His dead-head “friends” rise up to blame; Henceforth, perhaps, he’ll try this trick no more, But warned by Monday’s gruesome sounds, Will run his premières upon proper grounds, And do as others do――take money at the door. So henceforth, Alec, wisdom try―― Don’t on the Public frown; A failure, e’en when “friends” _don’t_ guy, Will never draw the town
CARADOS.
――――
LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED PORTRAIT OF JOHN MILTON. (_In Tonson’s Folio Edition of “Paradise Lost,” 1688._)
Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, The next in majesty, in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go; To make a third she joined the former two.
Mr. Malone suggested that the idea of these lines was borrowed by Dryden from Salvaggi’s Latin distich:――
“_Græcia, Mæonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem, Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem._”
But in a little work, printed in 1676, entitled “Anima Astrologia,” a verse occurs which bears a much nearer resemblance to Dryden’s epigram:――
“Let envy burst; Urania’s glad to see Her sons thus joined in a triplicity; To Cardan and to Guido much is due, And in one Lilly we behold the two.”
These lines allude to Jerome Cardan, the Astrologer (1501-1576), to William Lilly, also an Astrologer (1602-1681), and to Ubaldo Guido, an Italian Mathematician (1540-1601). Dryden was a firm believer in astrology, and as he must, in all probability, have been well acquainted with this book, it is probable these lines were in his mind when he composed his own more polished epigram.
On page 233, Vol. 2, of this Collection, a number of parodies of the Epigram will be found, but the following imitations were accidentally omitted.
ON HYPATIA. MADAME AGNESI, AND MRS. SOMERVILLE.
“Three women, in three different ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn; Rare as poetic minds of master flights, Three only rose to science’ loftiest heights. The first a brutal crowd in pieces tore, Envious of fame, bewildered at her lore; The next through tints of darkening shadow passed, Lost in the azure sisterhood at last; Equal to these the third, and happier far, Cheerful though wise, though learned, popular, Liked by the many, valued by the few, Instructs the world, yet dubbed by none a Blue.”
There is a little confusion in these lines, both Madame Agnesi and Mrs. Somerville were born in the same “age” if by that _century_ is meant, and although Hypatia talked Greek she was an Egyptian, whilst Mrs. Somerville was not English at all, having been born in Scotland. Hypatia, a female philosopher in Alexandria, was brutally murdered by an ignorant mob; Madame Agnesi, an Italian lady of great scientific attainments, died a _Blue_ Nun in a convent at Milan in 1799. Mrs. Mary Somerville wrote several scientific books, of which perhaps the best known was “The Connection of the Physical Sciences.”
Three Richards lived in Brunswick’s glorious reign, In Westminster the first[39], the next in Warwick Lane[40], In Dumbleton the third[41], each doughty knight, In spite of nature, was resolved to write. The first in penury of thought surpassed, The next in rambling cant; in both the last. The force of dulness could no further go, To make the third she joined the former two.
By Dr. James Drake, then an Undergrad of St. John’s College, Cambridge, printed in _Anonymiana_, 1809.
――――
Biographies of John Dryden are so numerous and accessible that it is unnecessary here to discuss the weak points of his character. To use the mildest language possible, he was a time-server, a turncoat, and a court sycophant. He had written in praise of Oliver Cromwell, he wrote equally laudatory verses on Charles II., he had strongly defended the Protestant religion, yet within a twelvemonth of the accession of the Catholic James II. the following entry appeared in Evelyn’s Diary, January 19, 1686: “Dryden, the famous play writer, and his two sons, and Mrs. Nelly (Miss to the late King) were said to go to mass; such proselytes were no great loss to the Church.” His conversion brought him Court patronage, and in April 1687 he published a defence of his new religion in verse, entitled “_The Hind and the Panther_.” This was a long allegorical poem in which the Hind represented the Catholic Church, and the Panther the Protestant Church of England. It gave rise to much controversy, and many burlesques were written upon it, ridiculing the work, and the character of its author. The most famous of these parodies was one of exquisite humour, the joint production of Charles Montague (the future Earl of Halifax) and Matthew Prior. This was called “The Hind and the Panther Transversed to the story of the Country Mouse and the City Mouse.” The principal characters in the famous farce _The Rehearsal_, Bayes, Smith, and Johnson, were revived in this witty production, which is unfortunately much too long to reprint. Dryden’s poem commences:――
A milk white Hind, immortal and unchanged, Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged; Without, unspotted, innocent within, She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds, And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly, And doomed to death, though fated not to die.
The first lines of the parody are:――
A milk-white Mouse immortal and unchanged, Fed on soft cheese, and o’er the Dairy ranged Without, unspotted; innocent within, She feared no Danger, for she knew no gin. Yet had she oft been scor’d by bloody claws Of winged owls, and stern Grimalkin’s Paws Aim’d at her destin’d Head, which made her fly, Tho’ she was doomed to death, and fated not to die.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
ALEXANDER POPE.
BORN May 21, 1688. | DIED May 30, 1744.
Dryden’s Odes for St. Cecilia’s Day have already been mentioned, and in 1708 Pope was also induced, by Richard Steele, to write an ode for the annual festival. This is acknowledged to be the finest poem of its kind that had appeared since Dryden’s odes were produced. In fact, as Pope himself said, “Many people would like my ode on music better if Dryden had never written on that subject. It was at the request of Mr. Steele that I wrote mine; and not with any thought of rivalling that great man, whose memory I do, and have always reverenced.”
Pope chose the mythological story of Orpheus and Eurydice as the theme for his ode; it is too long to quote in full, but the first verse, and last quatrain, will serve as key notes for the parodies which follow.
ODE FOR ST. CECILIA’S DAY.
Descend ye Nine! descend and sing; The breathing instruments inspire, Wake into voice each silent string, And sweep the sounding lyre! In a sadly pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain: Let the loud trumpet sound, Till the roofs all around The shrill echoes rebound; While, in more lengthen’d notes and slow, The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. Hark! the numbers soft and clear Gently steal upon the ear; Now louder, and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, And melt away, In a dying, dying fall.
* * * * *
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater power is given, His numbers raised a shade from hell, Hers lift the soul to heaven.
ALEXANDER POPE.
――――
AN ODE TO TOAST-MASTER TOOLE.[42]
“Descend, ye Nine!” No common theme is mine―― I sing of thee, O Toole! Bacchus baptised thee in a font of wine, And from the roseate pool Thy face received the sunny tint it wears, And thus illumed (blest face!) a thousand “chairs.”
Who, that hath heard poor Charity’s appeal And nobly paid a guinea for a meal (Where soup and fish And every new-made dish, Just verged upon the cold; Or else the _very_ tough, or _very_ old―― Except the tepid salad, which appear’d Fresh gather’d from the hot-bed where ’twas rear’d), Can e’er forget, O Toole! thy coat of blue With dazzling metal buttons spangled o’er―― The yard of broad black ribbon, whereunto Appends the eye-glass thro’ which thou dost pore Over the list of toasts, ere thou dost bawl With such stentorian lungs, That we opine the walls of old Guildhall Are each endowèd with a thousand tongues―― “Silence!” To hear that Patagonian shout Is to obey. The hand that’s in the act of pouring out Is forced to stay―― “Non Nobis!!!” The greediest crammer Deserts his plate, roused by thy voice and hammer.
* * * * *
The buzz of bottle-drawing’s at its height; Brown takes wine with Smith, and Briggs with Bright, Hark! To that thunder, eloquent o’er all―― Toole! ’tis thy call. Of “Silence if you please――order for the chair!” As with an exquisite and finished air, (Worthy of――Widdicomb, when he essays To fix some shilling-gallery beauty’s gaze), You wave your paper _bâton_ o’er the head Of him who, like Olympian Jove, is seated there, And guides _your_ voice the thunder of the “Chair!” Who ne’er,――when public dinner port began To, Circe-wise, transmogrify the man, Hath found the rising hiccup downward driven, When, Toole! thy lungs this glorious toast have given―― “The Queen, with three times three! “Hip, hip, hurrah!――Silence for a glee!”
* * * * *
Farewell, thou King of Sentiment and Toast! Long may’st thou rule the roast At philanthropic and at civic dinner! Long may Lachesis (that old maiden spinner) Keep thy thread going, and long may we Hear you declare “Silence in the Chair! Messrs. Hobbs, Dobbs, Snobbs, will ’blige you with a glee.”
_Punch_, November, 1843.
――――
ODE ON ST. CECILIA’S DAY. (_A long way after Pope._)
Descend, great Bunn!――descend and bring A furnace of poetic fire; Nib fifty pens, and take your fling, Boldly of foolscap fill a quire. In a namby-pamby strain, Let the tenor first complain; Let the falsetto sound, With nasal twang around, ’Till in applause ’tis drown’d. Then in more ponderous notes and slow, Let the deep bass go down, extremely low. Hark the shrill soprano near Bursts upon the startled ear! Higher and higher does she rise, And fills with awful screams the flies, By straining and shrieking she reaches the notes, Out of tune, out of time too, the wild music floats; Till by degrees the vigorous bawl, Seems to decay, And melts away In a feeble, feeble squall.
In music there’s a medium, you know; Don’t sing too high, nor sink too low. If in a house tumultuous rows arise, Music to drown the noise the means supplies; Or when the housemaid, pressed with cares, To yonder public-house repairs, Some gallant soldier, fired by music’s sound Will order pints of half-and-half all round. John the footman nods his head, Swears he’ll not go home to bed; In his arms a partner takes, As some courteous speech he makes; And suddenly the joyous pair engage In giddy Waltz or Polka, now the rage.
But when the violin puts forth its charms, How the sweet music every bosom warms: So when the dilettante dared the squeeze, To hear of Jenny Lind the opening strain, And in the rush serenely sees His best coat torn in twain, Transported simpletons stood round, And men grew spooneys at the sound, Roaring with all their wind; Each one his power of lung displayed In bawling to the Swedish Maid While cheers from box to pit resound For Lind, for Lind, for Lind! But when through those mysterious bounds Where the policeman goes his rounds, The poet had by chance been led Mid the coal-hole, festive shed, What sounds were heard, What scenes appeared, How horrible the din! Toasted cheese If you please. Waiter――stop! Mutton-chop. Hollo! Jones, Devilled bones; And cries for rum or gin! But hark! the chairman near the fire Strikes on the table, to require Strict silence for a song. Thy tongue, O waiter, now keep still; Bring neither glass, nor go, nor gill; The pause will not be long. The guests are mute as if upon their beds; Their hair uncurl’d hangs from their listening heads. By the verses as they flow, By their meaning nothing though, Full of tropes and flowers; By those lofty rhymes that dwell In the mind of Bunn[43] so well, Like love in Paphian bowers. By the lines that he has made, Working at the poet’s trade―― By the “marble halls” so smart, By “other lips” and “Woman’s heart,” True poetry at once restore, restore, Or don’t let Bunn, at least, write any more! But soon, too soon, poor music shuts her eyes; Again she falls――again she dies, she dies. How will she now once more attempt to thrive? Ah! Jullien[44] comes to keep her still alive. Now with his British Army Quadrille, so bright and balmy, Or with four bands meeting, Two men a large drum beating, He gives the tone Of dying groan, Or soldier’s moan, When at his post His life is in the battle lost. With five bands surrounded, Is Jullien confounded? No! onwards he goes, And his arms about he throws. See: wild as a wild duck the bâton he plies; Ah! down in the chair he drops, closing his eyes. My eyes! He dies!
He comes to life――for Jullien all have sung; The name of Jullien is on every tongue. The boxes and the pit, Both they who stand and sit; With Jullien’s name the entire house has rung.
Music the greatest brute can charm, And savage natures will disarm. Music can find luxurious ease, Making what bargain it may please. A salary it can improve To any sum that it may love. This the delightful Lind has found, And to the tune of fifteen thousand pound. When the full house enjoys the Swedish bird, E’en Fashion deigns to lend its ear, So eager ’t is to catch each little word, That were a pin to drop it must be heard; And people come from far as well as near!
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, For Jenny Lind may boast with greater reason: His numbers he for gold could never sell―― She makes her fortune in a season!
From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848_.
――――:o:――――
In 1749 Bonnell Thornton published a humorous burlesque upon the Cecilian odes, under the title of “An Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, adapted to the Ancient British Musick,” which is said to have been set to music with characteristic accompaniments by Dr. Arne, and performed on the Saint’s day, November 22, 1749. This appears somewhat doubtful, it was however set to music in 1759 by Dr. Burney, who has left the following account of his work and its performance: “In 1759 I set for Smart and Newbery, Thornton’s Burlesque Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day. It was performed at Ranelagh in masks, to a very crowded audience, as I was told, for I then resided in Norfolk. Beard sang the Salt-box song, which was admirably accompanied on that instrument by Brent, the fencing master, and father of Miss Brent, the celebrated singer; Skeggs on the broomstick as bassoon, and a remarkable performer on the Jew’s Harp, ‘Buzzing twangs the iron lyre.’ Cleavers were cast in bell metal for this entertainment. All the performers of the Old Woman’s oratory, employed by Foote, were, I believe, employed at Ranelagh on this occasion.”
Boswell mentions that Dr. Johnson was much diverted with the humour of this ode.
AN ODE ON SAINT CECILIA’S DAY.
Adapted to the Antient British Musick: viz. The _Salt-Box_, the _Jew’s Harp_, the _Marrow-Bones_ and _Cleavers_, the _Hum-Strum_ or _Hurdy Gurdy_, etc.
With an introduction, giving some account of these truly British Instruments.
By BONNELL THORNTON, Esquire.
The Preface, which is too long to quote in full, concludes with the following remarks. “If this Ode contributes in the least to lessen our false taste in admiring that foreign Musick now so much in vogue, and to recall the ancient British spirit, together with the ancient British harmony, I shall not think the pains I employed on the composition entirely flung away on my countrymen. This Ode, I am sensible, is not without faults; though I cannot help thinking it far superior to the odes of Johnny Dryden, Joe Addison, Sawney Pope, Nick Rowe, little Kit Smart, etc, etc, etc, or of any that have written, or shall write on St. Cecilia’s day.”
“I have strictly adhered to the rule of making _the sound echo to the sense_.”
AN ODE ON SAINT CECILIA’S DAY.
OVERTURE.
_Recitative._
Be dumb, be dumb, ye inharmonious Sounds, And Musick, that th’ astonish’d Ear with Discord wounds: No more let common Rhymes profane the Day.
_Grand Chorus._
Grac’d with divine Cecilia’s Name; Let solemn Hymns this awful Feast proclaim, And heav’nly Notes conspire to raise the heavn’ly Lay.
_Recitative._
The meaner melody we scorn, Which vulgar instruments afford; Shrill flute, sharp fiddle, bellowing horn, Rumbling Bassoon, or tinkling Harpischord.
_Air._
In strains more exalted the Salt-box shall join, And Clattering, and Battering, and Clapping combine; With a Rap and a Tap while the hollow Side sounds, Up and down leaps the Flap, and with Rattling rebounds.
_Recitative._
Strike, strike the soft Judaic Harp, Soft and sharp, By Teeth coercive in firm Durance kept, And lightly by the volant Finger swept.
_Air._
Buzzing twangs the Iron Lyre, Shrilly Thrilling, Trembling, trilling, Whizzing with the wavering wire.
A GRAND SYMPHONY. _Accompanied with Marrow Bones and Cleavers._
_Air._
Hark, how the Banging Marrow-Bones Make Clanging Cleavers ring, With a Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding. Raise your uplifted arms on high; In long-prolonged tones Let Cleavers sound A merry merry round By Banging Marrow-Bones.
_Full Chorus_ (Repeat the above verse.)
_Recitative_
Cease lighter Numbers: Hither bring The undulating String Stretch’d out, and to the tumid Bladder In amity harmonious bound; Then deeper swell the notes and sadder, And let the hoarse Base slowly solemn sound.
_Air._
With dead, dull, doleful Hums, With mournful moans, And grievous groans, The sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrums.
## PART II.
_Recitative._
With majick sounds, like these, did Orpheus’ lyre, Motion, Sense, and Life inspire; When, as he play’d, the list’ning flood Still’d its loquacious waves, and silent stood; The Trees swift-bounding danc’d with loosen’d stumps, And sluggish stones caper’d in active jumps.
_Air._
Each ruddy-breasted Robin The concert bore a Bob in, And ev’ry hooting Owl around; The croaking Frogs, The grunting Hogs, All, all conspir’d to raise th’ enliv’ning Sound.
_Recitative._
Now to Cecilia, heav’nly maid, Your loud united voices raise: With solemn hymns to celebrate her Praise, Each instrument shall lend it’s aid. The Salt Box with clattering and clapping shall sound, The Iron lyre Buzzing twang with wav’ring wire, With heavy hum The Sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrum, And the Merry Merry Marrow-Bones ring round.
_Last Grand Chorus._
Such matchless strains Cecilia knew, When audience from their heavenly sphere, By Harmony’s Strong Power, she drew, Whilst list’ning angels gladly stoop’d to hear.
BONNELL THORNTON, 1749.
――――:o:――――
MOCK HEROIC POEMS.
Numerous imitations exist of Pope’s _Dunciad_, and the poets of the last century, and the early years of this, exercised considerable ingenuity in ringing the changes on the title, as will be seen from the following list. It must not, however, be concluded that the works mentioned are all _parodies_, except in the cases where the opening lines are quoted. One of the most scholarly of these productions was “_The Scribleriad_,” written by Richard Owen Cambridge, and published in 1751. In his preface he mentions Boileau’s _Lutrin_, Garth’s _Dispensary_, and Pope’s _Rape of the Lock_ and _Dunciad_, each of which, he considers, have a thousand beauties, but neither of which comes up to the true idea of a Mock-Heroic Poem. In fact he does not believe it was the _primary idea_ of either of the authors to write a Mock-Heroic, whereas that was the task he set himself in composing The _Scribleriad_. He gives the following apposite remarks on _Parody_:――
“The Athenians were so fond of Parody, that they eagerly applauded it, without examining with what propriety or connection it was introduced. _Aristophanes_ showed no sort of regard to either, in his ridicule of Euripides; but brings in the characters as well as verses of his tragedies, in many of his plays, though they have no connection with the plot of the play, nor any relation to the scene in which they are introduced. This love of Parody is accounted for by an excellent French critic, from a certain malignity in mankind, which prompts them to laugh at what they most esteem, thinking they, in some measure, repay themselves for that involuntary tribute which is exacted from them by merit.”
_The Baviad_, a paraphrastic imitation of the First satire of Persius, by William Gifford. London, 1794. This was written to ridicule a certain _clique_ of self-admirationists known as the “Della-Cruscan school,” and was very effectual in its object. It was followed by _The Maeviad_, by the same author, which completed the work _The Baviad_ had commenced, and the spurious poetry of the Della-Cruscan school was laughed out of existence. The footnotes to these satires are delicious reading, as Gifford has selected the most amusing examples of bathos, and inflated nonsense, from the poems of Anna Matilda, Merry, Parsons, Jerningham, Bell, Mrs. Robinson, and Della-Crusca, to illustrate his points.
_The Beeriad_, or Progress of Drink. An Heroic Poem, in Two Cantos, the first being an imitation of _The Dunciad_, the second a description of a _Ram Feast_, held annually in a particular small district of Hampshire. By a Gentleman in the Navy. Gosport. J. Philpot. 1736.
The first canto of this poem is printed side by side with a reprint of the first book of Pope’s Dunciad.
_The Beeriad_ commences thus:――
Beer and the men (a mighty theme!) I sing, Who to their mouths the brimming Pitcher bring. Say Sons of midnight! (since yourselves inspire, This drunken Work; so Jove and Drink require!) Say from what cause, in vain unquench’d the Thirst, Still reigns to-day as potent as at first. In eldest time ere mortals were so dry, E’er Bacchus issued from the Thund’rer’s Thigh, Strong Drink o’er some possess’d its native right,―― Lord of delusion, Sov’raign of the Night.
* * * * *
_The Billiad_, or how to criticise, a satire, with the Dirge of the Repeal (of the Irish Union) and other Jeux d’Esprit. By T. M. Hughes. Illustrated. 1846.
_The Blueviad_, a Satirical Poem, by E. Goulburn, Royal Horse Guards. London, 1805.
The author remarks, “The following ridiculous lines contain the description of some characters that once formed a Regiment of Volunteers.”
_The Burniad_; an Epistle to a Lady, in the manner of Burns, with Poetic Miscellanies, by J. H. Kenny. 1808.
_The Consuliad. A Mock Heroic Poem_, by Thomas Chatterton. This short poem is to be found amongst the works of the poor Bristol boy, he sold it to a Mr. Fell for ten shillings and sixpence at the time when he was slowly starving to death in London. It commenced thus:――
Of roaring constables and battles dire, Of geese uneaten, muse, awake the lyre! Where Campbell’s chimneys overlook the square, And Newton’s future prospects hang in air; Where counsellors dispute, and cockers match, And Caledonian earls in concert scratch,―― A group of heroes occupied the round, Long in the rolls of infamy renown’d. Circling the table, all in silence sat, Now tearing bloody lean, now champing fat; Now picking ortolans and chickens, slain To form the whimsies of an _à la reine_: Now storming castles of the newest taste, And granting articles to forts of paste; Now swallowing bitter draughts of Prussian beer; Now sucking tallow of salubrious deer. The god of Cabinets and senates saw His sons, like asses, to one centre draw.
* * * * *
There are passages in this satire of surprising power and originality for the work of a boy of seventeen years of age.
_The Censoriad_, a Poem, written originally by Martin Gulliver, illustrated with curious annotations. 1730.
_The Chessiad_, by C. Dibden the Younger. With other poems, by the same author, 1825.
_The Christiad_, a sacred heroic poem, translated by Cranwell from Vida. No date.
_The Dapiad_, a mock-heroic poem, by J. Randall. Barnstaple: printed by J. Avery, 1806.
_The Diaboliad_, a Poem dedicated to the Worst Man in His Majesty’s Dominions. London. G. Kearsley, 1677. The date given is evidently a misprint for 1777, as David Garrick, who is named in the Preface, was not born until 1716. This work has been ascribed to Combe.
_Anti-Diabo-Lady._ Respectfully dedicated to all the Women in Her Majesty’s Dominions in general; and to the Best of Them in Particular, calculated to expose the Malevolence of the Author of Diabo-Lady. London, 1777. Quarto 18 pp. (A satire in verse.)
_The Dispensary._ A poem in six Cantos, by Sir Samuel Garth. London, 1696.
_The Druriad_, or Strictures on the principal performers of Drury Lane Theatre. A Satirical Poem. Quarto. 1798.
_The Electriad_: A Tale of the Trojan War. “Homer down to Date,” by a G. O. M. London. The Pall Mall Electric Association. About 1885. Price sixpence. This anonymous advertising pamphlet was illustrated with portraits of the most eminent men of the day, represented as suffering from various ailments, and
Within his tent Achilles sat and swore; With pain the hero’s face was sicklied o’er, Gout in his feet, neuralgia in his jaws, Too weak, alas, to fight for Grecian cause; Bronchitis, rheumatism, lungs and liver, Hurried him fast towards the Stygian river.
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_The Fijiad_, or English Nights Entertainments, by an author of _The Siliad_. Beeton’s Fifteenth Christmas Annual. Illustrated. London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler.
_The Fribbleriad._ This was first printed in 1761, and was afterwards included in _The Repository_, vol. 2. It was addressed to a certain individual “X. Y. Z.,” who had been guilty of publishing an Essay containing an unfavourable criticism of David Garrick.
Who is the scribbler X. Y. Z.? Who still writes on, though little read? Whose falsehood, malice, envy, spite, So often grin, yet seldom bite? Say, Garrick, does he write for bread, This _friend_ of yours, this X. Y. Z.? For pleasure sure, not bread――’twere vain To write for that he ne’er could gain.
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_The Female Dunciad_, containing:――I. A Faithful account of the Intrigues, Gallantries, and Amours of Alexander Pope, of Twickenham, Esq., written by Himself. II. A Satire upon the Court Lords and Ladies. Written also by him in the year 1717. III. A Single Instance of his Repentance. IV. The New Surprising Metamorphosis; or, Mr. Pope turn’d into a Stinging Nettle; being a Familiar Epistle from a Gentleman in Town to a Lady in the Country. Occasioned by reading the Dunciad. V. Irish Artifice; or, the History of Clarina. A Novel, by Mrs. Eliza Haywood. VI. Female Worthies, by the Bishop of Peterborough. The whole being a Continuation of the Twickenham Hotch-Potch. London. T. Read, White-Fryers. 1728.
_The Hilliad_: an Epic Poem by Christopher Smart, A.M., Fellow of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. 1753. This was a satire on a certain Dr. Hill, it commenced as follows:――
Thou God of Jest, who o’er th’ ambrosial bowl, Giv’st joy to Jove, while laughter shakes the pole; And thou, fair Justice, of immortal line, Hear, and assist the poet’s grand design, Who aims at triumphs by no common ways, But on the stem of dulness grafts the bays. O thou, whatever name delight thine ear. Pimp! Poet! Puffer! ’Pothecary! Play’r! Whose baseless fame by vanity is buoy’d, Like the huge earth self-center’d in the void, Accept one partner thy own worth t’explore, And in thy praise be singular no more.
* * * * *
_The Lentiad_; or, _Peter the Pope_ and his Pioneers the Pusey men. Together with Anti-Pentateuchal Prelates, Broad-church and Balaam-ass-men, Pommelled and Pounded with a Hudibrastic cudgel.
_A Tale in Rhymes Fit for the Times_,
By a Beefeater, domestic chaplain to Fill-pots. Edited by Rev. John Allen. London: William Freeman, Fleet Street. 1863.
“John Chinaman, when fighting foes, At times holds stink-pots to their nose, For he believes――and he is right, That when in this way he can fight, And find thereby the battle won His stink-pots are as good’s a gun.”
More than 400 closely-printed pages of similar fustian to this are devoted to abuse of the Pope and his Church; coarse denunciations of the High Church party, and the Puseyites, Bishop Colenso and his works.
_The Lousiad_, an Heroi-Comic Poem, in five cantos. By Peter Pindar, Esq. (Dr. John Wolcott.) The introduction to this satire runs as follows: “It is necessary to inform thee, _Gentle Reader_, that His Majesty (George III.) actually discovered, some time ago, as he sat at table, a _louse_ on his plate. An edict was, in consequence, passed for shaving the cooks, scullions, etc., and the unfortunate louse was condemned to die.”
Such is the foundation of _The Lousiad_, of which the ingenious author, who ought to be allowed to know somewhat of the matter, hath been heard privately to declare, that, in his opinion, the _Batrachomyomachia_ of Homer, the _Secchia Rapita_ of Tassoni, the _Lutrin_ of Boileau, the _Dispensary_ of Garth, and the _Rape of the Lock_ of Pope, are not to be compared to it.
The Louse I sing, who, from some head unknown, Yet born and educated near a throne, Dropped down――(so willed the dread decree of fate!) With legs wide sprawling on the monarch’s plate: Far from the raptures of a wife’s embrace, Far from the gambols of a tender race, Whose little feet he taught with care to tread Amidst the wide dominions of the head; Led them to daily food with fond delight, And taught the tiny wanderers where to bite; To hide, to run, advance, or turn their tails, When hostile combs attacked, or vengeful nails: Far from those pleasing scenes ordained to roam, Like wise Ulysses, from his native home; Yet like that sage, though forced to roam and mourn, Like him, alas, not fated to return! Who, full of rags and glory, saw his boy And wife again, and dog that died for joy. Down dropped the luckless _louse_ with fear appalled, And wept his wife and children as he sprawled.
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_The Mobiad_, or battle of the Voices: an Heroi-Comic Poem, sportively satirical, being a briefly historical, natural and lively, free and humorous description of an _Exeter Election_, by Democritus Juvenal (A. Brice) with notes &c., Exeter, 1770.
_The Modern Dunciad_, a Satire; with notes, biographical and critical. London. Effingham Wilson, 1814. With a frontispiece by George Cruikshank. This anonymous work, written in imitation of the first satire of Persius, was devoted to the ridicule of the minor poets of the day, most of whom are now entirely forgotten:――
What can provoke thy muse? scarce thrice a year _Matilda’s_ woeful Madrigals appear; _Lewis_ no more the tender maid affrights With incantations, ravishments, and sprites; _Crusca_ (to _Gifford_ thanks!) is fairly fled, And _Cottle’s_ epics sleep among the dead; E’en _Wolcot’s_ impious blasphemies are o’er, And _Andrews’_ Prologues are the vogue no more.
* * * * *
Alluding to Rosa Matilda’s effusions; M. G. Lewis, author of “The Monk;” Gifford’s attack on the Della Cruscans; Amos Cottle’s poems, and the satirical works of Dr. John Wolcot, known as “Peter Pindar.”)
_The Mæviad_, by William Gifford, 1795. In imitation of a satire of Horace, and directed against the Della-Cruscan school of Poetry. See _The Baviad_.
_The Moneiad_: or The Power of Money. By the Rev. W. P. Macdonald, late Chaplain of the Regiment of Roll. London. James Harper, 46 Fleet Street. 1818.
It contains an early poem, entitled “Sir Penny, or the Power of Money.” The work was dedicated to the Duke of Kent.
_The New Dunciad_. Facts and anecdotes illustrative of the iniquitous practises of Anonymous Critics, 1806.
This is a _prose_ commentary on the critics, published by Tegg, London, and has no relation to Pope’s _Dunciad_.
_The New Dunciad_, as it was found in the year 1741, with the Illustrations of Scriblerus, and Notes Variorum. London. J. H. Hubbard 1742.
_Yet_, yet a moment, one dim ray of Light Indulge, dread Chaos and eternal Night! Of Darkness visible so much be lent, As half to show, half veil the deep intent. Ye Pow’rs! whose mysteries restor’d I sing, To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing, Suspend awhile your force inertly strong, Then take at once the Poet and the Song.
_The New Dunciad._ This appeared in parts in a London penny paper called _The Jester_, the first number of which was published February 23, 1889. It was a weak attempt to satirise some of the celebrities of the day, and was destitute of interest, or poetical merit.
_The Obliviad_: A Satire, with notes, together with additional Notes, Preface, and Supplement, by the American Editor. And the Perpetual Commentary of the _Athenæum_. New York. James Millar, Broadway. London, B. Quaritch, 15, Piccadilly. 1879.
This is a very remarkable book, it consists of about 350 pages in all, of which at least two thirds are occupied by Notes, critical, satirical, and biographical, dealing with the principal writers of the day, in a most unmerciful manner. Even _The Saturday Review_, which itself has a reputation for sharp speaking, remarked (June 28, 1879):――“_The Obliviad_ is a laborious imitation of the Dunciad, somewhat more universally insolent in its treatment of contemporary authors than any other satire in prose or verse that we remember.”
Naturally a book which could speak with fearless truth of the writings of such men as Tennyson, Robert Browning, Swinburne, Dickens, Hepworth Dixon, and Robert Buchanan created a sensation, but unfortunately the author was almost too indiscriminate in his censures, for whilst everyone admits that the above named authors have occasionally written absurd and nonsensical works, it is equally certain that they did not, in the first place, make their names and fames in that manner.
_The Obliviad_ has been attributed to Dr. William Leech of New York.
_The Olympiad._ A Satirical Poem.
_The Puffiad_, a Satire, with a dedication to “Those who don’t like it,” a Critique for their use, and copious Introductory Epistle to an Eminent Puffer. 1828.
_The Rodiad_, by George Coleman, 1813. This relates to Flagellation:
Delightful Sport! whose never failing charm Makes young blood tingle, and keeps old blood warm.
_The Rosciad._ By Charles Churchill. 1761.
_The Rolliad_, or more correctly, _Criticisms_ on the Rolliad, for the poem itself (except in some disjointed extracts introduced as examples) existed only in the fertile brains of the authors of this satire on Mr. Rolle (afterwards Lord Rolle), who was elected M.P. for Devon in 1784, in the Tory interest. When _The Rolliad_ first appeared it had a great success, and rapidly ran through many editions, but time has cast into oblivion most of its allusions, and the characters introduced are well nigh forgotten. _The Rolliad_ was written by several authors, and parts have been ascribed to George Ellis, General Fitzpatrick, and Joseph Richardson M.P. Lord Rolle died in 1842.
_The Rational Rosciad_, in two parts, 1767.
_The Rape of the Bucket_, an Heroi-Comical Poem by Tassoni, translated with Notes, by J. Atkinson. 1825.
_The Scribleriad_: an Heroic Poem. In six books. London: R. Dodsley in Pall Mall 1751, quarto, with curious illustrations. This satire was written to ridicule the errors of false taste and false learning, and was pronounced, by a contemporary critic, to be a work of great fancy and poetical elegance. The author, Mr. Richard Owen Cambridge, is highly spoken of by Boswell, in his life of Dr. Johnson.
The much enduring Man, whose curious Soul Bore him, with ceaseless toil, from pole to pole, Insatiate, endless knowledge to obtain, Thro’ woes by land, thro’ dangers on the main, New woes, new dangers destin’d to engage By wrathful _Saturn’s_ unrelenting rage, I sing. * * * * *
_The Siliad_, or the Siege of the Seats. Beeton’s Christmas Annual, fourteenth season. London. Ward, Lock and Tyler. An Illustrated Political Satire, by the authors of “The Coming K――.” 1873.
Bobilloe’s spleen, to whigs the direful spring Of votes ungiven, printed pages, sing! That spleen which made the ballot-boxes tell Of liberal candidates the funeral knell; Whose names, dishonoured in the morning sheet, Devouring scribes and hungry penmen greet:―― Since his bad-tempered way Bobilloe’s showed, And made ill use of place on him bestowed; Began to wane men’s confidence and trust Which, to succeed in warfare, hold chiefs must.
_The Spiritual Dunciad_; or, Oxford “_Tracks_” to Popery. A Satire with Notes and Appendix by Robert Dick, M.D., C.M. London, C. Westerton, 1859. This was a bitter attack on the Roman Catholic religion;
If by antiquity, we judge what’s true, Why halt a Roman? Why not turn a Jew? Our noble Luther――he did nothing more Than pristine pureness to Christ’s truth restore, By ignorance and lies long crusted o’er.
_The Tauroboliad_; or, the Sacrifice of the Constitution. A Satire. 1831.
_The Thespiad_; a Poem. 1809.
_The Tommiad_; a Biographical Fancy, written about the year 1842. London. Anonymous.
_The Toriad_; a Poem. By Eupolis. London. Wightman & Co., 1837. 18 pp. octavo, Price one shilling.
“War and the Debt I sing-the giant crimes Of Tories in the good old Tory Times.”
_The Triad._ By W. Wiekenden, 1855.
_The Victoriad_; or, New World, an Epic Poem. By E. Carrington. A curious work which the author modestly considered was written in the simple classic style of Dante.
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There are many passages in Pope’s writings which might well be spared on account of their indelicacy, yet they are innocent and pure as compared with some of the satires launched at him by his enemies and rivals. The greater number of these are too gross to be republished in a work intended for general readers, as are also the three principal and most amusing parodies of his works.
Pope’s _Essay on Man_ was the subject of a parody, entitled _The Essay on Woman_; his _Eloisa to Abelard_ was burlesqued in _Eloisa en Déshabille_; and _The Rape of the Lock_ was parodied in a poem entitled _The Rape of the Smock_.
In an article on John Wilkes published in _The Athenæum_ in 1874, it was stated that the charge against him of having written the infamous _Essay upon Woman_ must now be given up. “It is as clear as is any fact in history, that whoever wrote the _Essay_, Wilkes, at all events, did not. Wilkes was prosecuted for it, and was convicted, not however for being the author of the poem, but for having published it. All the statements on the trial go to show that the original Essay was printed in red letter, and with a frontispiece, and an engraved title.”
Much has been written about this parody, but its authorship is still shrouded in mystery. In 1763 The Rev. John Kidgell published “A Narrative of a scandalous, obscene, and exceedingly profane libel, entitled _An Essay on Woman_” to which an answer was printed in the same year. Both of these tracts are in the British Museum. _The Essay on Woman_ has been recently re-published by private subscription, but is still what is called a scarce book.
_Eloisa en Déshabille_: Being a Parody of Mr. Pope’s celebrated Epistle of that young lady to Abelard. By a late celebrated Greek Professor, dedicated to the _Loungers_ of Great Britain and Ireland. 1810.
This witty but indelicate poem has been generally ascribed to Professor Porson, the famous Greek scholar, who frequently quoted passages from it. But it seems more probable that it was written by Colonel J. Matthews, the brother of the author of “The Diary of an Invalid.”
Immur’d in this prison, so dull and so moping, Where vows and high walls bar all hopes of eloping; Where close-grated windows scarce show us the sun, What means this strange itch in the flesh of a nun? Why wander my thoughts in the midst of devotion Why feels my fond heart its long smother’d emotion? Still, still, love prevails! this unquenchable flame Blazes fresh at the sight of my Abelard’s name.
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_The Rape of the Smock._ An Heroi-comical Poem. In Two Books. London. R. Burleigh, in Amen Corner. 1717. _Price one shilling._ With a quaint illustration.
I sing a Virgin’s Smock, the direful cause Of horrid Bloodshed, and of Breach of Laws; That Linnen Veil, which pendant Ruffles grace, Of _Indian_ Muslin, or of Flanders Lace; Wide stretch’d, and falling down in many a Plait, From the fair Bosom, to the snowy Feet; White as the Lilly, or the Skin it hides, Where charming Nature shines, and Love resides. Let Ozell sing the _Bucket_,[45] Pope the _Lock_, My daring Muse prefers the _Rape of Smock_. * * * * *
This poem, which is by no means difficult to obtain, is generally ascribed to Lady Mary Wortley Montague, the friend and correspondent of Pope. The most remarkable feature about it is that it could have been written and published by a lady of rank and fashion.
_An Elegy written in an Empty Assembly Room_ Published (anonymously) by R. & J. Dodsley, London, 1766, was a parody on some of the most remarkable passages in Pope’s _Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard_, but the subject does not inspire interest, and the parody has little humour.
In scenes where _Hallet’s_ genius has combin’d With Bromwich to amuse and chear the mind; Amid this Pomp of Cost, this Pride of Art, What mean these sorrows in a Female Heart? Ye crowded Walls, whose well enlighten’d Round With Lover’s Sighs and Protestations sound, Ye pictures flatter’d by the learn’d and wise, Ye glasses, ogled by the brightest eyes, Ye cards, whom Beauties by their touch have blest, Ye chairs, which Peers and Ministers have prest, How are ye chang’d! like you my fate I moan, Like you, alas! neglected and alone―― For ah! to me alone no card is come, I must not go abroad――and cannot _Be at Home_.
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A French parody of this famous poem by Pope also exists, entitled “_Histoire des amours et des infortunes d’Abelard et d’Eloise_ mise en vers satiré-comi-burlesques,” par M. Armand. Cologne, Pierre Marteau, 1724.
[Illustration]
From AN ESSAY ON MAN. Epistle I.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topp’d hill, an humbler heaven; Some safer world, in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold: To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
A. POPE.
Lo! the poor toper whose untutor’d sense Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense, ――But sees, admitted to an equal share, Each faithful swain the heady portion bear.
From Crabbe’s _Inebriety_.
A NEW READING OF POPE.
Lo, the lean Indian, whose bewildered mind Sees naught of God, either in cloud or wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray, It strayed itself, and now has lost its way. Simple nature to his hope has given, Beyond some cloud-capped hill, a sensual heaven, Some place where science cannot grope its way, Nor learning cast one single feeble ray; No whites disturb. No Christian ’stablish laws. But he can rest while work is done by squaws. To loaf contents his natural desire; He asks no angel’s wings to get up higher, And if he did, no angel from the sky Would think of taking Lo up very high. But grant the burden of his Indian song―― Do as he likes, and take his dorg along.
ANONYMOUS.
Another parody of the same passage is given “after a bad dinner” in “_Anecdotes_, Historical and Literary,” published in London by Vernor and Hood in 1796.
An imitation of Pope’s _Universal Prayer_ will be found on page 115 of _The Pleasures of Nature_ by D. Carey. 1803.
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A PARODY OF ACHILLES’ SPEECH, Pope’s _Homer_, Book I, line 309.
(Occasioned by the author hearing of a Clergyman who, in a violent fit of anger, threw his wig into the fire, and turned his son out of doors.)
“Now by this sacred perriwig I swear, Which never more shall locks or ringlets bear, Which never more shall form the smart toupee, Forced from its parent head,――(as thou from me); Once ’twas live hair; now form’d by th’ artist’s hand, It aids the labours of the sacred band; Adds to the vicar’s brow a decent grace, And pours a glory round his rev’rend face. By this I swear, when thou shalt ask again My doors to enter, thou shalt ask in vain.” He spoke, and furious with indignant ire Hurl’d the vast hairy texture on the fire; Then sternly silent sate――the active flame Remorseless wastes the soft and tender frame: Writhed to and fro consumes the tortured hair, And lost in smoke attenuates to air.
From _The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge_. London. Cadell and Davies, 1803.
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It is sometimes objected to parodies, that they tend to bring into ridicule the finest productions of genius; but this is an imaginary, rather than a real ground of complaint. Who does not admire the Mantuan Poet though Cotton has burlesqued his Æneid? And though the Iliad has been more than once travestied, do we not still dwell with enthusiastic pleasure on every line attributed to Homer? We see therefore no need of apology in submitting to our readers a parody of the following beautiful lines of Pope:――
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, O’er heaven’s pure azure sheds her sacred light; When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll; And stars unnumber’d gild the glowing pole. O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain’s head; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies; The conscious swains rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
PARODY
As when an alderman just dubb’d a knight, Doth his fat comrades to a feast invite; His eager hand uplifts the deep tureen, Beneath whose lid the smoking turtle’s seen; Around the chair the ready waiters roll, To fill the plate of every hungry soul. O’er all the room the grateful odours spread, And nods with pleasure every civic head; Then shine their cheeks ne’er ting’d with deeper dyes, The well made punch stands sparkling ’fore their eyes. The aldermen rejoicing in the sight Eye the rich treat, and bless the bounteous knight.
From _The British Minerva_, printed in _Hamburgh_, 1818.
In _Posthumous Parodies_ (1814) there is a paraphrase of a passage in Pope’s “Temple of Fame,” it commences thus:
But lo! amidst the oratoric choir, Six gorgeous columns o’er the rest aspire: Around the chair itself of fame they stand, Hold her chief honours, and her house command. High on the first the son of Chatham shone, (The British lion couching by his throne,) Master of speech! His potent eloquence Seems still to echo on the wond’ring sense: Anxious, but firm, his lofty look appears, And young he seems, with all the skill of years.
* * * * *
George Canning, C. J. Fox, R. B. Sheridan, Warren Hastings, Burke and Windham are the other politicians alluded to in this poem.
――――:o:――――
AN ESSAY ON PLAY.
_By_ _A_――――_r_ _P_――――_e_.