A CENTURY OF PARODY AND
IMITATION

JAMES AND HORACE SMITH

A
CENTURY OF PARODY
AND IMITATION

EDITED BY

WALTER JERROLD

AND

R. M. LEONARD

'No author ever spared a brother,

Wits are gamecocks to one another.'

Gay

HUMPHREY MILFORD

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW

NEW YORK, TORONTO, MELBOURNE, BOMBAY

1913

PREFATORY NOTE

The object of this compilation is to provide a corpus of representative parodies and imitations of a century, beginning with Rejected Addresses (1812), which practically marked the birth of modern parody, and are here printed in their entirety. Prose parodies, excepting those in Rejected Addresses, have been excluded; the derivation of the word 'parody' may be referred to in justification. Emerson wrote in his 'Fable'

'——all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year

And a sphere;

so in this volume will be found all forms of imitations from, in Mr. Owen Seaman's words, 'the lowest, a mere verbal echo, to the highest, where it becomes a department of pure criticism.'

It is quite unnecessary to add to the published mass of writing, wise and foolish, on the art and ethics of parody. Some of the pieces in this book are included chiefly because they have an historical place in the development of parody to its present high standard of execution and good taste.

Isaac D'Israeli asserted that 'unless the prototype is familiar to us a parody is nothing.' As a matter of fact some of the best work is that of which the originals have been forgotten long since; although, of course, when the poets and the poems imitated are familiar the art of the imitator can be better appreciated.

The word 'century' has been interpreted with some licence. The work of living parodists does not fall within the scope of this collection, and it is a real self-denying ordinance which forbids the inclusion of triumphs by Sir Frederick Pollock, Mr. Owen Seaman, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, Mr. Barry Pain, the Rev. Anthony Deane, and others who, in their undergraduate days, enlivened the periodicals of Oxford and Cambridge, or to-day show their dexterity in the pages of Punch. By way of recompense, the volume contains parodies by some, still living in 1812, whose work was published before Rejected Addresses. The parodies which follow therefore range from George Ellis, who was born in 1753, to Andrew Lang, who died in 1912. Very sparing use has been made of anonymous work, and in this connexion it may be well to explain that 'Adolphus Smalls of Boniface' is ruled out, because, although published anonymously, it is known to be the joint composition in their Balliol days of Dr. W. W. Merry, the Rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, and Alfred Blomfield, afterwards Bishop of Colchester.

With regard to Rejected Addresses, the publication of which may be said to have revived and established the art of parody, the genesis of the work is sufficiently explained in the authors' prefaces and notes. There were parodists before the Brothers Smith, yet their topical little volume has a lasting value, not only because of its inherent excellence, but also because it struck the note which the best later exponents of the art have followed. Published in the autumn of 1812, the book reached its fifteenth edition within two years, and its success led to the publication of a volume of certain of the Addresses that had really been sent to Drury Lane for competition. The one hundred and fifteen such Addresses which were actually submitted are, with one or two exceptions, preserved in the Manuscript Department of the British Museum.

The compilers' best thanks are due to those who have kindly allowed the use of copyright parodies or imitations—namely, to the following: Sir Herbert Stephen (and Messrs. Bowes and Bowes) for parodies by his brother J. K. Stephen; Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton and Messrs. Chatto and Windus for Swinburne's parodies; Mr. W. M. Rossetti and Messrs. Ellis for those by Dante Gabriel Rossetti; Messrs. G. Bell and Sons for the copyright pieces by C. S. Calverley in Fly-Leaves; Messrs. Blackwood and Sons for Sir Theodore Martin's 'Lay of the Lovelorn' and H. D. Traill's parodies; Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew and Co. for R. F. Murray's 'Tennysonian Fragment' from Punch; Messrs. Burns and Oates for Francis Thompson's imitation of Omar Khayyam; Messrs. Chatto and Windus, and, for the American rights, the Houghton, Mifflin Company, for the parodies by Bret Harte and Bayard Taylor; the Editor of the Journal of Education for 'A Girtonian Funeral' by an unknown author, presumably deceased; Messrs. Longmans, Green and Co. for the parodies by Andrew Lang; Messrs. J. MacLehose and Sons for the additional pieces by R. F. Murray; Messrs. Metcalfe and Co. for A. G. Hilton's parodies; Messrs. Pickering and Chatto for Miss Fanshawe's pieces; and Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for the variations by H. C. Bunner on the familiar theme of 'Home, Sweet Home.' The sources of the copyright work are given in the notes at the end of the volume. The footnotes are those of the writers of the parodies.

WALTER JERROLD.

R. M. LEONARD.

ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS, WITH THEIR PARODIES OR IMITATIONS

REJECTED ADDRESSES[1]
OR
THE NEW THEATRUM POETARUM

Fired that the House reject him!——s death!

I'll print it, and shame the fools.

Pope.

HORACE AND JAMES SMITH

LOYAL EFFUSION.

BY W. T. F.[2]

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 Boney),

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[3]

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 Buonapartè, fill'd 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![4] 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 Tilney, 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!

THE BABY'S DEBUT.

BY W. W.[5]

Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait,

All thy false mimic fooleries I hate;

For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she

Who is right foolish hath the better plea:

Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.

Cumberland.

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,[6]

And I was eight on New-year's-day;

So in Kate Wilson's shop

Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)

Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,

And brother Jack a top.

Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is,—

He thinks mine came to more than his;

So to my drawer he goes,

Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!

He pokes her head between the bars,

And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,

And tie it to his peg-top's peg,

And bang, with might and main,

Its head against the parlour-door:

Off flies the head, and hits the floor,

And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:

Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he's to melt, all scalding hot,

Half my doll's nose, and I am not

To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,

And cried, 'O naughty Nancy Lake,

Thus to distress your aunt:

No Drury Lane for you to-day!'

And while Papa said, 'Pooh, she may!'

Mamma said, 'No, she sha'n't!'

Well, after many a sad reproach,

They got into a hackney coach,

And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind,

The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill

Used to be drawn to Pentonville

Stood in the lumber-room:

I wiped the dust from off the top,

While Molly mopp'd it with a mop,

And brush'd it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,

Came in at six to black the shoes,

(I always talk to Sam:)

So what does he, but takes, and drags

Me in the chaise along the flags,

And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,

But not so tall and not so thick

As these; and, goodness me!

My father's beams are made of wood,

But never, never half so good

As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!

The carpet, when they lay it down,

Won't hide it, I'll be bound;

And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!

How they do blaze! I wonder why

They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing,

And kept away; but Mr. Thing-

umbob, the prompter man,

Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,

And said, 'Go on, my pretty love;

'Speak to 'em, little Nan.

'You've only got to curtsy, whisp-

er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,

And then you're sure to take:

I've known the day when brats, not quite

Thirteen, got fifty pounds a-night;[7]

Then why not Nancy Lake?'

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?

And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?

Where's Jack? O, there they sit!

They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,

And order round poor Billy's chaise,

To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go

To join mamma, and see the show;

So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsy, like a pretty miss,

And if you'll blow to me a kiss,

I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blows a kiss, and exit.]

'The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his maukish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his Alice Fell, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair; and indeed we think a flattering, imitation.'—Edinburgh Review.

AN ADDRESS

WITHOUT A PHŒNIX.

BY S. T. P.[8]

This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked.

What You Will.

What stately vision mocks my waking sense?

Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence!

Ha! is it real?—can my doubts be vain?

It is, it is, and Drury lives again!

Around each grateful veteran attends,

Eager to rush and gratulate his friends,

Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight,

Endear the past, and make the future bright:

Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile

Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.

When last we met, Fate's unrelenting hand

Already grasped the devastating brand;

Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize,

Then burst resistless to the astonished skies.

The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride,

In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide,

Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall,

Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all!

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung,

And raptured thousands on their music hung,

Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced,

Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste;

And still had reigned—but he, whose voice can raise

More magic wonders than Amphion's lays,

Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage

To rear the prostrate glories of the stage.

Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell,

And Drury's genius saw his temple swell;

Worthy, we hope, the British Drama's cause,

Worthy of British arts, and your applause.

Guided by you, our earnest aims presume

To renovate the Drama with the dome;

The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old,

With due observance splendidly unfold,

Yet raise and foster with parental hand

The living talent of our native land.

O! may we still, to sense and nature true,

Delight the many, nor offend the few.

Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim,

Still be its moral tendency the same,

To win by precept, by example warn,

To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn,

And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.

CUI BONO?

BY LORD B.[9]

I.

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,

The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[10]

Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,

The restless soul is driven to ramble home;

Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome

The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,

There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,

Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,

Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

II.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way

To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,

Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,

Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,

What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom?

Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave

Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.

Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave,

Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

III.

Has life so little store of real woes,

That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?

Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,

Ye court the lying drama for relief?

Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief:

Or if one tolerable page appears

In folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf,

Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,

And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

IV.

Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee!

Light as the mote that danceth in the beam,

He liveth only in man's present e'e,

His life a flash, his memory a dream,

Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream.

Yet what are they, the learned and the great?

Awhile of longer wonderment the theme,

Who shall presume to prophesy their date,

Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

V.

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil,

Perchance than Holland's edifice[11] more fleet,

Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil;