%images;]> lchtml-003801 Sam. A melancholy but instructive narrative, founded on facts, and on Horace Smith's "George Bornewell.". ...: a machine readable transcription. Lewis Carroll Scrapbook, Library of Congress Selected and converted. American Memory, Library of Congress.

Washington, DC, 2003.

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 2004/05/18
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SAM.

A MELANCHOLY BUT INSTRUCTIVE NARRATIVE, FOUNDED ON FACTS, AND ON HOBACE SMITH'S “GEORGE BARNEWELL.”

Sam Soapey stood at his Palace door, Promotion hoping to find, Sir; His Apron it hung down before, And the tail of his wig behind, Sir.* A Lady, so painted and smart, Cried “Pardon my little transgression, But I know what is next to your heart, Now, what do you think of Confession?” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

Her face was rouged up to the eyes, And red was her ladyship's toggery, And folks who are thought to be wise, Recognised a professor of roguery. A bundle of Keys at her waist— Says she, “I can help you, Sir, that I can, In the South I am very much graced, And I live at a place called the Vatican.”-Rum-ti, &c.

Her language his wits did bereave, She proceeded to carney and gabble on, And at last (which you'd hardly believe) He smirked at the Lady of Babylon. Says he “I should get in a scrape, Could my late and respectable Sire hark; He'd frown should a Wilberforce ape A sleek Ultramontanist hierarch.”—Rum-ti, &c.

Says she, “Don't be frightened at names, You've always to Rome had a tendency; 0002 Stand up for Confession; your game's To struggle for priestly ascendency. Cut the priest a back-way to the house, And you've cut through the isthmus of Darien: Fathers, husbands, are not worth a souse After that, my fine stout-legged Tractarian.—Rum-ti, &c.

“Let laymen surrender their rights To the curate; he knows what his trade is; He'll keep the wife's conscience from frights, And he will ‘direct’ the young ladies. Get the women but under your thumb, No chance for the male interlopers, They may talk and protest till they're dumb, The priest has the sway—and the coppers.”—Rum-ti, &c.

This counsel he took from his love, And in Parliament's very next Session He pleaded, with voice of a dove, For “the excellent rite called Confession.” But Premiers are wary, and they can see Whom 'tis expedient to fish up; Lo! an archiepiscopal vacancy, And Sam is not made an Archbishop.—Rum-ti, &c.

“If that Woman were here, dash my wigs,” Cried he, “I'd come Luther and Knox at her, I'd slate the old mother of prigs, And raise my episcopal vox at her. I fancied I'd made such a rare book, And now I'm in just the wrong box for't; Had I stuck to my Anglican Prayer-book, I should not have stuck Bishop of Oxford.”—Rum-ti, &c.

MORAL. (Too obvious to need telling.)

*Hierarchical wigs have no tails, and hierarchical Oxford has no wig, but trifles must not quench the sacred fire of poesy.