THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.

I'LL sing you a good old song of the powerful Fourth
Estate,

Of a bold and reckless Special of the very latest date,
Who is able countless horrors to in print accumulate,
And will wire false news from anywhere at the usual cable
rate,

Chorus. Like a Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

When on the war-path he proceeds and takes his daily rides,
The enemy sends shots at him, and then in terror hides,
As he clears whole batteries at once with the steed that he
bestrides,

And from a hissing shell a light for his cigarette provides, Chorus.-Does this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

He knows not fear-'tis grand to see how he his nerves controls,

As midst the grape and canister, he calmly caracoles,
Whilst bullets in his pocket-book make inconvenient holes ;
And a well-pitched ball from out his hands the pencil often
bowls,

Chorus. Of the Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

When incidents are dull or few, he'll reckless lies invent,
Or he'll date his telegrams from towns to which he never
went;

To vilify a famous man he'll readily consent,
And will act on orders sent from home to any base extent,
Chorus.-Will this Special Correspondent, all of
the modern time!

He loves to don a uniform and swagger with the best,
And when no English are about wears medals on his chest ;
And for the news he cables home attention to arrest,
That British troops are cowardly curs he glibly will suggest.
Chorus.-Will this Special Correspondent, all of
the modern time!

He has an altogether strange and wondrous sense of sight,
For he can see a brilliant moon upon a moonless night;
And has been known the lowest types of passion to excite,
By writing of a fabulous "Baboon and Potboy" fight.*

Chorus. Has this Special Correspondent, all of
the modern time!

"Untamed and ancient Savages" he also can espy,
And many other curious sights-if no one else be nigh!
But, if he should have company, why, then, his magic eye
No longer non-existent moons and mortals can descry.

Chorus. For this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

When brought to mix with gentlemen, he acts in such a way, That they are bound to rid themselves of him without delay; For he toadies to gain confidence, which straightway he'll betray;

And there's no trick too mean for him to readily essay.

Chorus. This Special Correspondent, one of the
modern time!

In short, he's arrogant and false; he gushes to excess,
He makes his facts to suit the views his master may express;

An allusion to The Daily Telegraph (London), which had pub. lished a very sensational report of a fight between a man and a dog.

He don't take days to travel up by daily coach and mail,
And stop at roadside posting-houses, drinking rum and ale,
Or waste is time to dine, and hear the landlord's oft-told
tale,

Put speeds at forty miles an hour to town express by rail.
This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

In former days his dress was baggy sandy-coloured suits,
A great top-coat, with pockets deep, knee-breeches and top-
boots,

And all his thoughts were how to grow the finest crops and roots,

And all his talk of ripening ccrn and rearing Christmas
brutes.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

But now the modern farmer is a transformation quite-
His coat made small, and cutaway-his trousers fitting tight.
His Balmoralish patent leather button boots are light,
A Champagne Charley glossy hat, curl'd brim, and small in
height,
On this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

The past young English farmer was so vulgar and ill-bred—
A gross, fat, clumsy lump of human nature over-fed ;
His goggle-eyes were lustreless-his bacon chops all red,
His hair hung coarse and shaggy all about his pumpkin-
head.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

But the modern English farmer, now, 'tis pretty well agreed,
Is a very different person-of a very different breed ;
He comes up to the Cattle Show a gentleman indeed,
And doesn't lounge about the town, and drink, and over-
feed.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He's quite a genteel fellow, nothing "fast," and nothing "flash;

Can very soon distinguish good amusements from the trash;
His nature full of spirits, and his pocket full of cash,
And he cultivates your friendship and a very large mous-
tache.
Does this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He talks to you of chemical manures-salts and phosphates,
Discusses freely politics of home or foreign states;

66

In science, too, is well read up to hold out long debates; Can play the 'fancy" science, too, for punishing rogue's pates

This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He's not a Tony Lumpkin now, to muddle time away

In public-house, or skittle-ground, and smoke the vulgar clay.

But, having more refinement, can the game of billiards play,
Or join the ladies on the lawn at love-making croquet.
Can this nice Young Agriculturist, &c.

Look round, too, at his Christmas stock-the same improve

ment own;

No longer for a tallow show the Christmas cattle grown : No more beneath oppressive fat shall porkers lie and moan, But well-developed form and flesh, and very little bone.

By this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

Now, isn't this much better that the live-stock should be so,
Than as seen by our grandfathers some fifty years ago?
And may the price of butchers' meat a great deal cheaper
grow;

Then success attend exhibitors, and the Christmas Cattle
Show!

And the fine Young Agriculturist, one of the modern time.

From Banter, Edited by G. A. Sala. December 9, 1867.

THE ROMANCE OF KELLY'S POST-OFFICE DIRECTORY. WE hear of days long passed away, and glorious times of old,

And how Young England's sons affirm we're getting dull and cold;

But yet romance is not quite dead-in common daily life She still exists; of which great fact you'll find examples rife In the Post-office Directory, all of the present year.

The

mighty minds of every age you'll meet therein combined,

John Milton, as a tea dealer, in Mary'bone you'll find; And Isaac Walton in the East, has stores of pens and quills;

And Hogarth trades in ham and beef, and Butler deals in pills,

In the Post-office Directory, &c.

(The Author continues to string notable names together in this style for six more verses.)

In fact, there's nought or nobody the keen compilers spare, And all we have immortalised are bona fide, there;

Just turn to the last copy, and you'll find them all forthwith, Unless you chance to lose yourself amongst the tribes of Smith,

In Kelly's last Directory, all of the present year.

From A Pottle of Strawberries, by Albert Smith. 1848.

In the following notes, extracts are given from a few parodies which are not sufficiently amusing to be quoted in full.

An uninteresting political parody of the "The fine old English Gentleman" in eight verses, is contained in a small pamphlet entitled Blasts from Bradlaugh's own Trumpet, published by Houlston and Sons, London, about 1883.

It commences thus :

I SING a brand new song which may old faiths eradicate,

A PARODY BY CHARLES DICKENS.

THE following parody, written by Charles Dickens, appeared in The Examiner for Saturday, August 7, 1841. Mr. Forster thus refers to it in his Life of Charles Dickens: "The last of these rhymes I will give entire. This has no touch of personal satire in it, and he would himself, for that reason, have least objected to its revival." Thereupon Mr. Forster quotes seven only out of the eight stanzas he professes to give in full, omitting one which quite destroys his assertion that there was no personal satire in the parody. Mr. Forster was once described by a cabman as "that 'ere harbitrary cove;" to give a garbled quotation, and state that it is the entire poem is indeed an arbitrary act. The following is a complete reproduction of Mr. Dickens's parody :

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

New version (to be said or sung at all Conservative
Dinners.)

I'LL sing you a new ballad, and I'll warrant it first-rate, Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate;

When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate, On ev'ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev'ry noble gate, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again !

The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains,

With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains,

With rebel heads, and seas of blood, once hot in rebel veins;

For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains,

Of the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!

This brave old cɔde, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes,

And ev'ry English peasant had his good old English spies, To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies,

Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

The good old times for cutting throats, that cried out in their need,

The good old times for hunting men who held their father's creed,

The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed,

Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed.

Oh, the fine old English Tory times;
When will they come again?

In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark,

But sweetly sang of men in power like any tuneful lark ;
Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark;
And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his
mark.

Oh, the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!

(The following stanza was omitted by Mr. Forster.) Those were the days for taxes, and for war's infernal din; For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win ; For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin, Because they didn't think the Prince was altogether thin, In the fine old English Tory times; Scon may they come again!

But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing'd in the main ;

That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain;

The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain;

A nation's grip was on it, and it died in choking pain,
With the fine old English Tory days,

All of the olden time.

The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land,

In England there shall be-dear bread! in Irelandsword and brand,

And poverty and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand,

So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand,
Of the fine old English Tory days;
Hail to the coming time!

The allusions contained in the sixth stanza require some explanation. In 1813 Leigh Hunt and his brother, as proprietors of The Examiner, were sentenced to undergo two years imprisonment, and each to pay a fine of five hundred pounds, for publishing an article in that paper containing the following remarks on the Prince Regent :

"What person would imagine in reading these astounding eulogies in The Morning Post, that this Glory of the people' was the subject of mulions of shrugs and reproaches! That this Conqueror of Hearts' was the disappointer of hopes! That this 'Exciter of Desire (Bravo, Morning Post), this 'Adonis in Loveliness,' was a corpu lent man of fifty! In short, this delightful, blissful, wise, pleasureable, honourable, virtuous, true and immortal Prince was violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country, or the respect of posterity."

a

My ranklings I then might assuage
By renewing my efforts to vex,
By profaning the rev'rence of age,
And attacking the weakness of sex.

A libel! what treasure untold
Resides in that dear little word,
More rich than the silver and gold

Which the Bank is reported to hoard!

But the Bench have no bowels for pity, No stomach for high-season'd leven, And though we be never so witty,

They trim us when judgment is given.

O ye, who were present in Court,
In pity convey to me here
Some well-manufactured report,

Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.

Do my writings continue to tell?

Does the public attend to my lines? O say that my Newspapers sell Though the money must go for my fines! How fleet is the growth of a fib! The astonishing speed of its flight Outstrips the less mischievous squib Let off on a holiday night.

Then who would not vamp up a fudge,

When he knows how it helps off his papers Were it not-that the thought of the judge Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?

But Cobbett has got his dischargeThe beast is let loose from his cover: Like him I shall yet be at large,

When a couple of years shall be over.

For law must our liberty give,

Though Law for a while may retard it Even I shall obtain it, who live

By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.

Severe as was the punishment inflicted on the Hunts it did not have a deterrent effect; indeed the trial was a political blunder, it gave enormous publicity to a libel which would otherwise have been seen by few, and have soon been forgotten; it offended many, who whilst having no sympathy with the Hunts, were still in favour of a free Press; and finally it encouraged the publication and sale of many other attacks upon the Prince Regent, and his friends. The most active and zealous purveyor of this kind of literature was William Hone, of Ludgate Hill, who published numerous pamphlets, leaflets, parodies and squibs; most of these were written by Hone himself, and illustrated by George Cruikshank. The Prince Regent's personal appearance, his intemperance, his vanity, and his conduct towards his wife, were mercilessly exposed and ridiculed; whilst the actions of the ministry were also held up to public scorn and contempt.

Eventually the government took legal proceedings against Hone for publishing political parodies, namely, John Wilkes's Catechism, the Political Litany, and the Sinecurist's Creed.

There were three separate trials held in the Guildhall, London, on December 18, 19 and 20, 1817, and in each trial the Jury found a verdict of Not Guilty. Here, again, the government prosecutions defeated their own ends. Hone became the hero of the day, the martyr in the cause of the liberty of the Press; a large sum of money was raised for him by public subscription, and what was worse, the parodies were republished, and, owing to the publicity given to them by the trials, the sales were enormous. Even now these little pamphlets are eagerly sought after by collectors of literary curosities, and of Cruikshankiana, especially those relating to the Prince Regent and his illtreated wife. The most successful example of Hone's skill was a parody entitled "The House that Jack built," of which more than fifty editions were rapidly sold off. A few extracts will show the bitter tone of this parody; and Cruikshank's portrait of the Dandy of Sixty was scarcely more complimentary than Leigh Hunt's written description of the "fat Adonis of fifty." The subjects of Cruikshank's illustrations are given within parenthesis.

THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

(A Temple of Liberty. )

This is the WEALTH that lay in the House that Jack built. (Magna Charta, Habeas Corpus, Bill of Rights.)

These are the VERMIN that plunder the Wealth, that lay in the House that Jack built.

(Court Official, Bishops, Lawyers, Army, Tax-collectors.)

This is the THING, that in spite of new Acts,
And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the Vermin, that plunder the Wealth,
That lay in the House, that Jack built.

(A Printing Press,

This is the PUBLIC INFORMER, Who would put down the Thing, That in spite of new Acts,

And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax, Will poison the Vermin, that plunder the Wealth, That lay in the House, that Jack built.

(The Attorney General)

These are the REASONS OF LAWLESS POWER,

That back the Public Informer,

Who would put down the Thing,

That in spite of new Acts, &c., &e.

(A Gaoler, an Artilleryman, a Horse Guard, and a Grenadier.)

This is THE MAN-all shaven and shorn,
All cover'd with Orders-and all forlorn ;
THE DANDY OF SIXTY,

Who bows with a grace,

And has taste in wigs, collars, cuirasses, and lace;
Who, to tricksters and fools, leaves the State and its treasure,
And, when Britain's in tears, sails about at his pleasure,
Who spurn'd from his presence the Friends of his youth,
And now has not one who will tell him the truth;
Who took to his counsels, in evil hour,

The Friends to the Reasons of Lawless Power;
That back the Public Informer

Who would put down the Thing,

That, in spite of New Acts,

And attempts to restrain it, by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the Vermin,

That plunder the Wealth,

That lay in the House that Jack Built.

(A crowd of starving people.)

These are the PEOPLE
All tattered and torn,
Who curse the day wherein they were born,
On account of taxation too great to be borne,
And pray for relief, from night to morn:
Who, in vain, Petition in every form,
Who, peaceably meeting to ask for Reform,
Were sabred by Yeomanry Cavalry,
Who were thanked by The Man,

All shaven and shorn, all covered with Orders
And all forlorn ;

THE DANDY OF SIXTY,

Who bows with a grace, &c., &c.