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Lord Byron and his Times: http://lordbyron.org
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It appears that the Courierfarrier, and “the
Reverend Doctor Alderson, of Butterby,”
is the bellman of the city. A Correspondent of a
When The Chronicle met his
eyes;” or, when he speaks of the copy he gave to his “friend and relation
We fear the Courier, by acknowledging, in the case of the
Hos ego versiculos scripsi tulit alter honorem. They lie, the rogues, I wrote the ode before ’em. Mr. Editor, Sir,—Good Heavens, Mr. Editor, grant me patience! Is this to be borne, and in a free country too—a country that boasts of its laws, its respect for literary property, its—Oh, I shall go wild. It’s mine, Mr. Editor, it’s all mine; I wrote the ode, every line of it; I wrote it all (except from the end of its first stanza to the concluding couplet of the last, inclusive, which were furnished me by the suggestion of my valued friend,Mr. Jones , the green-grocer of Honey-lane market), and I showed it to my other valued friend,Mr. Thompson , of No. 117, Crown-court, Little Britain, beforeLord Byron , orSir John Moore , or any of them were born; and he has got a copy to this day, written in a roman-hand, upon a piece of whitey-brown paper, Yes, Sir, I repeat,“—but no; I wont quote that now—that’s the beginning of one of my little Latin effusions, which I showed a twelvemonth since to my friend"Ille ego qui quondam Smith, of Bucklersbury ; and if I do, somebody, I suppose, will be claiming that. But at once to silence all pretenders, I enclose you a real genuine copy, as It was originally written—not uponSir John Moore ; no indeed, nor upon any such person, but upon a friend and relation of mine, oneDr. Ollepod , whose name I introduced in a play I composed some years ago; which, as well as many other trifles of mine, is a great favourite with the public. You will perceive, Mr. Editor, that some bungler has marred my verses to serve a purpose, and treated them as gipsies do stolen children, disfigured them to make them pass for his own; an original remark of mine—this, by-the-by, to oneSheridan , who has since been uncandid enough to make use of it without acknowledgment. Now read, Mr. Editor, read and judge for yourself.
ODE.
Not a soushad he got—not a guinea or note;And he look’d confoundedly flurried As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the landlady after him hurried. We saw him again at dead of night. When home from the club returning; We twigg’dthe Doctor beneath the lightOf the gas-lamps, brilliantly burning. All bare and expos’d to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him; And he look’d like a gentleman taking a snooze With his Marshallcloak around him.“The Doctor’s as drunk as the D—,” we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We rais’d him, and sigh’d at the thought that his head Would consumedly ache on the morrow. We bore him home and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him next morning a couple of red- Herrings with soda water. Loudly they talk’d of his money that’s gone, And his Lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on, ’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. We tuck’d him in, and had hardly done, When beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman “one o’clock” bawling. Slowly and sadly we all walked down From his room in the uppermost story; A rush-light we placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory. Now, Sir I appeal to you—I appeal to all the world, and to the Rev. Dr. Butterboat in particular, whether a more abominable plagiarism was ever committed; whether the wholeOde whichLord Byron so much approved, and so many people have claimed, is not as false and barefaced a fabrication as ever was foisted upon the public; fabricated, Sir, entirely from my lines? When I think of it I cannot help being a little ruffled—“Oh, I could do such deeds,” as one of my heroes, a black man, says in a Tragedy I wrote last winter. Nevertheless, do not suppose I am in a passion, Mr. Editor; no, I am too much of a philosopher, as well as a poet, for that; and to show the perfect contempt in which I hold all those who would rob me of my laurels, I shall conclude with four lines I have just composed, which will bear on this nefarious attempt to plunder me of my well-earned fame; and let the envyers of laurels construe them if they can.Sic vos non vobls vellera fertis oves, Sic vos non vobis mellificatis apes, Sic vos non vobis fertis arata boves, Sic vos non vobis nidificatis ayes! I am Sir, Years very truly, PETER PEPPERCORN, M.D. North-street, Pentonville.