Rejected Addresses; Or, The New Theatrum Poetarum. James Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ Leicestershire clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: “I do not see why they should have been rejected,” observed the matter-of-fact annotator; “I think some of them very good!” Upon the whole, few have been the instances, in the acrimonious history of literature, where a malicious pleasantry like the Rejected Addresses—which the parties ridiculed might well consider more annoying than a direct satire—instead of being met by querulous bitterness or petulant retaliation, has procured for its authors the acquaintance, or conciliated the good-will, of those whom they had the most audaciously burlesqued.

      In commenting on a work, however trifling, which has survived the lapse of twenty years, an author may almost claim the privileged garrulity of age; yet even in a professedly gossiping Preface, we begin to fear that we are exceeding our commission, and abusing the patience of the reader. If we are doing so, we might urge extenuating circumstances, which will explain, though they may not excuse, our diffuseness. To one of us the totally unexpected success of this little work proved an important event, since it mainly decided him, some years afterwards, to embark in the literary career which the continued favour of that novel-reading world has rendered both pleasant and profitable to him. This is the first, as it will probably be the last, occasion upon which we shall ever intrude ourselves personally on the public notice; and we trust that our now doing so will stand excused by the reasons we have adduced.

      London, March, 1833

I.

       LOYAL EFFUSION.

       Table of Contents

      By W. T. F.

      [WILLIAM THOMAS FITZGERALD.]

      [Mr. Fitzgerald died 9th July, 1829, aged 70.]

      “Quicquid dicunt, lando: id rursum si negant,

       Lando 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 Phoenix 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 [2] 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 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! [3a] 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? [3b] 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? [4a] 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; [4b] 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!

      II.

       THE BABY’S DEBUT. [5a]

      By W. W.

      [WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.]

      Mr. Wordsworth died 23rd, April, 1850, in his 82nd year.

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