Rejected Addresses | Page 7

politics and personality, to imitate the turn of mind as well as the
phraseology of our originals, and, at all events, to raise a harmless
laugh, were our main objects; in the attainment of which united aims,
we were sometimes hurried into extravagance, by attaching much more
importance to the last than to the two first. In no instance were we thus
betrayed into a greater injustice than in the case of Mr.

Wordsworth--the touching sentiment, profound wisdom, and copious
harmony of whose loftier writings we left unnoticed, in the desire of
burlesquing them; while we pounced upon his popular ballads, and
exerted ourselves to push their simplicity into puerility and silliness.
With pride and pleasure do we now claim to be ranked among the most
ardent admirers of this true poet; and if he himself could see the state of
his works, which are ever at our right hand, he would, perhaps, receive
the manifest evidences they exhibit of constant reference and delighted
re- perusal, as some sort of amende honorable for the unfairness of
which we were guilty when we were less conversant with the higher
inspirations of his muse. To Mr. Coleridge, and others of our originals,
we must also do a tardy act of justice, by declaring that our burlesque
of their peculiarities has never blinded us to those beauties and talents
which are beyond the reach of all ridicule.
One of us {3} had written a genuine Address for the occasion, which
was sent to the Committee, and shared the fate it merited, in being
rejected. To swell the bulk, or rather to diminish the tenuity of our little
work, we added it to the Imitations; and prefixing the initials of S. T. P.
for the purpose of puzzling the critics, were not a little amused, in the
sequel, by the many guesses and conjectures into which we had
ensnared some of our readers. We could even enjoy the mysticism,
qualified as it was by the poor compliment, that our carefully written
Address exhibited no "very prominent trait of absurdity," when we saw
it thus noticed in the Edinburgh Review for November 1812:- "An
Address by S. T. P. we can make nothing of; and professing our
ignorance of the author designated by these letters, we can only add,
that the Address, though a little affected, and not very full of meaning,
has no very prominent trait of absurdity, that we can detect; and might
have been adopted and spoken, so far as we can perceive, without any
hazard of ridicule. In our simplicity we consider it as a very decent,
mellifluous, occasional prologue; and do not understand how it has
found its way into its present company."
Urged forward by hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad
coadjutors in any enterprise, we at length congratulated ourselves on
having completed our task in time to have it printed and published by
the opening of the theatre. But alas! our difficulties, so far from being
surmounted, seemed only to be beginning. Strangers to the arcana of

the booksellers' trade, and unacquainted with their almost invincible
objection to single volumes of low price, especially when tendered by
writers who have acquired no previous name, we little anticipated that
they would refuse to publish our Rejected Addresses, even although we
asked nothing for the copyright. Such, however, proved to be the case.
Our manuscript was perused and returned to us by several of the most
eminent publishers. {4} Well do we remember betaking ourselves to
one of the craft in Bond-street, whom we found in a back parlour, with
his gouty leg propped upon a cushion, in spite of which warning he
diluted his luncheon with frequent glasses of Madeira. "What have you
already written?" was his first question- -an interrogatory to which we
had been subjected in almost every instance. "Nothing by which we can
be known." "Then I am afraid to undertake the publication." We
presumed timidly to suggest that every writer must have a beginning,
and that to refuse to publish for him until he had acquired a name, was
to imitate the sapient mother who cautioned her son against going into
the water until he could swim. "An old joke--a regular Joe!" exclaimed
our companion, tossing off another bumper. "Still older than Joe
Miller," was our reply; "for, if we mistake not, it is the very first
anecdote in the facetiae of Hierocles." "Ha, sirs!" resumed the
bibliopolist, "you are learned, are you? So, sob!--Well, leave your
manuscript with me; I will look it over to-night, and give you an
answer to-morrow." Punctual as the clock we presented ourselves at his
door on the following morning, when our papers were returned to us
with the observation--"These trifles are really not deficient in smartness;
they are