Chapter XXIII: Canto VI: ―― (8)

“They play those tricks to make us laugh,
(Just hear the people shout!)
Though what they slap each other for,
I never could make out;
But everybody says this time
It is a famous pantomime.

“And some are kings, and some are queens,
And some are knights and squires.
And some have friends behind the scenes,
And fly――by means of wires;
For many hundred at a time,
Perform in this great pantomime.

“Some smile, like that for weeks and weeks,
And twirl upon their toes;
Some paint their eyebrows and their cheeks,
And prance about in rows;
And everybody says, ‘How prime!
It is a famous pantomime.’

“Great praise the foremost actors win
Whenever they are seen――”
“But tis a very silly thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl; this time
It is a famous pantomime.

“Perhaps poor Joe, who laughs so loud,
Feels more inclined to cry;
Perhaps _his_ little Wilhelmine
Is sick, and like to die:
But every one, you know, some time
Must play in the great pantomime.”

CUCUMBER. (_A. Salter._)

――――

THE BATTLE OF BRUMMAGEM.
_By Robert Mouthey._

I.

It was an April evening,
The polling day was o’er;
And Grandpa STONE in sadden’d mood,
Reclined his fire before;
Recrimination, blame, were done,
GEM, RANDALL, HOPKINS,――all,――were gone.

II.

His little grandson, playing near,
A printed sheet had found,
With letters cover’d, bold and clear,
And figures large and round;
In vain he tried to make it out,
And came to ask what ’twas about.

III.

Old STONE then took it from the child,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And heav’d a natural sigh,――
“It tells of all who went,” said he,
And poll’d in the great victory!”

IV.

“I see it in the papers told,
There’s many here about;
And often when their tales I read,
In lies I find them out;
We Tories never feared,” said he,
“To gain a glorious victory!”

V.

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
His grandson then he cries,
While near his little sister stood,
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now, tell us all about this Poll;
What means this word so queer and droll?”

VI.

“The Liberals ’twas” said STONE, “who put
The Tory host to rout;
But how this same thing came to pass
I cannot well make out;
But all the same for us,” said he,
“It is a _virtual_ victory!”

VII.

“I show’d my face amid the crowd,
The polling booth hard by;
Hired ruffians chaff’d and hooted me,
And I was forced to fly;
So, as was best, I quickly fled,
And here I rest my weary head.”

VIII.

“All false reports and tales we spread,
And slander far and wide;
Intimidation, threats, rewards,――
Each Tory dodge we tried;
Such things in politics must be,
E’en for a _virtual_ victory!”

IX.

Bad luck! a drizzling rain came down,
The day had else been won;
Our band of Tory lambs it drench’d,
And spoilt their promis’d fun;
The Liberals to vote were free,
And gain’d a famous victory!”

X.

“Great praise our BURNABY he won,
And CALTHORPE by his side,”
“Why, twas a very foolish thing!”
The little girl then cried.
“Nay,――nay,――my little girl,” quoth he,
“They gain’d a _virtual_ victory!”

XI.

“And every one the MAJOR prais’d,
Who this great fight did win;”――
“Then, after all,” the boy he cried,
’Twas BURNABY got in?”
“Well,――not exactly that,”――said he,
’Twas but a _virtual_ victory!”

By the late William Bates, B.A.

_The Town Crier_, Birmingham, April, 1880.

――――

A FAMOUS HOLIDAY.

It was a summer evening,
The pointsman’s work was done;
And he before his own box door
Felt precious glad for one;
And by him loafed about the line
The night-watch due at half-past nine.

And, as he loafed about, he came
On something flat and round,
That smashed had caught his shuffling feet
Upon the gravelled ground.
And then he asked what he had found
That was so smashed――yet flat and round.

The pointsman took it from his mate
Who stood all sleepy by;
And then he clapped it on his head
And said, “Lor’ bless you――why,
It’s what some bloke dropped by the way
On that there last bank ’oliday!

“I often come across ’em here,
There’s many round about;
Why, if you had to find your ’ats,
That ditch would rig you out!
There’s scores of ’em, so I’ve heard say,
Wos dropped on that there ’oliday.”

“Now, tip us ’ow it come about,”
The other, drowsy, cries,
The while, the crownless chimney-pot
Upon his head he tries.
“Now, tip us: say, whose job it wor?
What did he smash the ’_Scursion_ for?”

“Jim’s wor that job,” the pointsman said;
“He ’ad too long a bout!
But what he smashed the ’_Scursion_ for
I never could make out.
He fell a blinkin, I dus say,
And took _his_ little ’oliday!

“But them as was a-takin’ theirs
(And some――it was their last),
Was ’appy, singin’ of their songs:
And, as she busted past,
You might ’ave heard ’em, laughin’ say,
‘This ’ere’s a famous ’oliday!’

“So, when she come upon them points,
As crammed as you could pack,
And not a soul a-chaffin’ there
Know’d death lay on the track,――
It did seem ’ard in that there way
To end their ‘famous ’oliday!’

“And, oh! it was a ’orrid sight,
When off the line she run,
With dozens lying stiff and still,
Who started full of fun!
But, there――had Jim now not give way,
They’d ’ad a famous ’oliday!

“He got it precious ’ot for that!”
The other stroked his chin.
“Maybe. But it’s the Company,”
Said he, “I’d like to skin!
I’d let ’em all at Bot’ny Bay
Just try _their_ famous ’oliday!”

The pointsman faced his mate. Quoth he,
“Where can your reck’ning be?
Here’s parties pays a bob or two.
And gets three hours o’ sea;
And, _if they ain’t smashed up_, I say,
That there’s a famous ’oliday.”

“And, what’s to come,” the other asked,
“Of scares now like this ’ere?”
The pointsman smiled. “My mate,” he said,
“_You_’re green, that’s pretty clear.
Why, ‘what’s to come?’ Next year, I’ll lay,
_Another famous oliday_!”

_Punch_, September 25, 1880.

――――

A GLORIOUS VICTORY.

It was a summer evening,
Old Roger’s work was done,
And he his fragrant honey-dew
Was smoking in the sun,
And by him sported, bright and fair,
His little grandchild, Golden Hair.

She saw her brother, Curly Head,
Bring something hard and round
Which he, upon the mantel-shelf,
Beneath a shade, had found.
She came to ask what he had found
That was so hard, and smooth, and round.

Old Roger took it from the boy
Who stood expectant by,
And then the old man told the tale――
(Fire kindled in his eye)――
“This is the Cricket-Ball,” said he,
“That tells of a great Victory.

“I prize it more than all I have,
It’s worth can ne’er be told;
’Tis true ’tis only leather, but
’Tis more to me than gold!
Go, place it back again,” said he,――
“It was a famous Victory.”

“Please tell us what it is you mean.”
Young Curly Head he cries;
And little Golden Hair looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes:――
“Yes, tell us, for we long to know
The reason why you prize it so.”

“It was the Colonists,” he said,
Of now undying fame,
Who met Eleven picked Englishmen
And put them all to shame:
For everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous Victory.

“The contest, at the Oval was――
The noted ground hard by――
’Twas there that Spofforth smashed the stumps,
And made the bails to fly;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous Victory.

“Not even Grace, of matchless skill
(No worthier in the land),
The ‘Demon’s’ onslaughts could resist,
His awful speed withstand;
By lightning smit, as falls the oak,
The wickets fell beneath his stroke!

“And more than twenty thousand men,
With bated breath, looked on――
The threatening rain deterred them not,
Nor did the scorching sun;
Their time and money gave to see
Who’d gain the famous Victory.

“And when at last the crisis came――
When _one_ must quickly yield――
When Peate, the famous Yorkshireman,
His wicket failed to shield,
All over was the splendid play――
The Englishmen had lost the day!

“They say it was a wondrous sight,
After the match was done,
To see so many thousand men
After the Victors run;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous Victory.

“Great praise the ‘Demon’ Spofforth gained,
His bowling was so rare.”
“I think he must have frightened them,”
Said little Golden Hair.
“Well, well, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous Victory!”

“And everyone the ‘Demon’ cheered,
So many low he laid”――――
“_But what could they be all about
To let him?_” Curley said:
“Why _that_――I cannot tell,” said he:
“But ’twas a famous Victory!”

_Punch_, September 16, 1882.

――――

A FAMOUS VICTORY.

It was a spring-tide evening,
When he who speaks of jams,
And many more mysterious things,
Sat reading telegrams;
And, while he scanned them through and through,
The British public read them too.

And soon that public stared to see
A column filled with blood,
Which though set forth in plainest print,
No mortal understood:
They came to ask that statesman good
What looked so red with human blood.

The statesman took it from the crowd
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And heaved a worried sigh――
“’Tis some news-monger’s scrawl,” said he,
“About the grand new victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
The British public cries,
While in that good man’s face it looks
With wonder-waiting eyes――
“Now tell us all about our war,
And what we killed these Arabs for.”

“It was we English,” out he cried,
“Put Osman’s blacks to rout;
What else can Liberals want to know
Why else marched Graham out?
And e’en the Tories own,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous――victory.”

“We thrashed the Arabs once at Teb――
I can’t say why ’twas so;
For Tokar needed no relief,
And Sinkat less you know:
And Gordon promised t’other day,
The Soudanese should have their way.

“Oh, ’twas a glorious sight to see
How great god Jingo rose,
And at my bidding swept from life
Whole hosts of gallant foes:
How British soldiers dare and die
With, or without a reason why,

“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won:
For full four thousand bodies there
Lay dead beneath the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

“Great praise my energy has gained,
And laurels crown my head.”
“Why, ’twas a downright massacre!”
The simple public said.
“Nay, nay, my friends: nay, nay,” said he
“It was a famous victory!”

“Famous, by――Jingo!” so he swore.
Yet still they asked, perplext,
“But what good comes of it at last?
And what’s to follow next?”
“_Why, that I cannot tell_,” said he:
“_But――’twas a_ FAMOUS VICTORY!”

_Clapham Free Press_, April 5, 1884.

――――

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM (HOUSE).

It was a winter evening,
In dull November’s gloom,
When J. B. Stone sat doing sums,
In the club smoking-room;
And by him Rowlands sat serene
Blowing the fragrant nicotine.

They heard a voice both shrill and loud
Calling out “_Daily Mail_,
Result in Central Birmingham!”
Then turned a little pale;
And Rowlands hoarsely whispered “Stone,”
I――rather――think――the verdict’s known.”

They sent the spacious serving man――
A ha’p’ny in his hand――
To fetch with tongs th’ accursed sheet,
Which eagerly they scanned:
A fearful thing there met their sight,
“GREAT VICTORY FOR MR. BRIGHT!”

Quoth Rowlands: “This looks very blue,
Poor Churchill――what a sell!
I think I’ll have a brandy hot,”
And forthwith pulled the bell;
While Stone sat still with stony stare,
Gazing profoundly on the air.

But soon he gave a sudden jerk,
And pulled his pencil out,
And figured over several sheets,
Then raised a joyous shout:
“Ah, ah, ’tis not so bad you see,
We’ve won a virtual victory.

“’Tis true that Bright is just ahead,
By hundreds nine to ten,
But I can show he should have won
By just us much again:
We’ve lower’d their proud majority,
And that’s a virtual victory.”

“Ahem!” said Rowlands, looking glum,
“That doesn’t count, I fear,
A win’s a win, and we must sing
Political small beer.
Your best arithmetic won’t score
Twice two as anything but four.”

“Cheer up, cheer up, my trusty friend.”
Stone cheerily chirped out,
“I’m rather good at ciphering,
And know what I’m about:
I say we ought to sing with glee
For such a virtual victory:

“Send off the news to Blenheim House
That Marlborough may know,
Despatch a score of ‘tannergrams’
To humble Highbury Joe;
’Twill make him shake with fear to see
We’ve won a virtual victory.

“Come, run with me to High Street quick,
And show to the _Gazette_
How to display this joyful news
In type triumphant set;
How fine upon the bill ’twill be
To read “Great Virtual Victory!”

“But tell me,” Rowlands answered him,
“What ’vantage we shall gain,
When Bright will sit, and Bright will vote,
While Churchill’s with the slain?”
“Oh that,” quoth Stone, “Don’t trouble me,
’Tis such a virtual victory!”

_Birmingham Daily Mail_, November, 1885.

――――

THE OLD GLADSTONITE AND HIS SON.
A.D. CIRCA 1900.

“Tell me, dear father, if the time
When this poor paltry Island’s might,
Was held enough to conquer Crime,
And even Anarchy to fight;
Explain to me how Gladstone’s acts――
So noble in themselves――yet made
Our ruin and our fall two facts,
And put our glory in the shade.”
His explanation only ran,
“He was a very grand old man.”

“But father, dear, when all the dead
And tortured loyalists who fell
For deeming that what Gladstone said,
Was true; and only when the yell
Of Dynamiting Fenian crew
Came on their ears, saw their reward,
For so believing, surely you
Don’t think ’twas right to steal their sword?”
He murmured, as his tears began,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”

“And England’s honour, credit, name,
Her colonies, her army, fleet,
All gone――her prestige turned to shame,
Her altered battle cry ‘Retreat:’
Was not all this a biggish price
To pay for keeping even him
To talk, and make distinctions nice.
And be so eloquent and dim?”
He glared as only fathers can,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”

“Father, I know we should be still
While foes are taking all we prize;
’Tis Gladstone-good to think no ill
Of murderers in moral guise;
But, somehow, if our forbears had
Just shut him up, I’d almost bet
That Englishmen might now be glad,
And England might be England yet.”
Poor Father’s tears in buckets ran,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”

DESART.
The _Morning Post_, June 5, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE JACKANAPE JOCK.
(_From our Special Sporting Correspondent._)

I.

Great stir in the air, great stir on the lea,
Stands, paddock and ring all noisy with glee,
All backing the favourite, for none had a notion
Except his sly owner, he’d been drugged with a potion.

II.

As the hour of two chimed forth from the clock,
Out came the favourite with Jackanape Jock,
As they swept round the corner, they were received with a yell,
Cantering down in the open, both showed off so well.

III.

Even the starter of the Horsely stock
Had lumped his little on Jackanape Jock;
He mounted his steed, as the hand bell rang,
Which signalled the time when his duties began.

IV.

Then, the rest of the field trotted down to the dell,
They muster’d fifteen――all known very well;
But none so cute at getting out of a block
As the favourite bay and the Jackanape Jock.

V.

The sun in heaven shone bright and gay;
All who’d any coin began to hedge or to lay;
Bookmakers screamed their odds all around,
Four to one, three to one, then two to one pound.

VI.

The bay with the Jackanape Jock was seen
A dark little speck by the other fifteen;
Sir Ralph took his glasses from round his neck
And fixed his eyes on that dark little speck.

VII.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
He’d all on the bay, slap down to his ring,
It was wealth or ruin――nothing less――
But Sir Ralph felt certain of success.

VIII.

He watched the white flag brightly float,
He watched the starter’s light covert coat,
He saw the nags standing as firm as a rock,
But the one which stood best was the bay and his jock.

IX.

The flag is lower’d――away they go,
The start is fair――the pace not slow,
The excitement is great――all gaze on the race,
And even _their_ tongues are quiet for a space.

X.

Up by the dell, as if spurning the ground,
Though straining each muscle, each gracefully bound;
But from the tip of his tail to the end of each hock
It looks like a win for the bay and his jock.

XI.

Sir Ralph he shouted and praised the bay,
He fancied he’d got it all his own way;
He began counting his gains, and hoarding his ore,
And chuckled with glee at the thought of his store.

XII.

All of a sudden, the bay lessens his speed,
And cease to take such a prominent lead;
“He’s keeping him in for the finish,” says he,
And he praised the jock as he had the gee.

XIII.

“The chap wants to show he’s well up to the course,
And can win in a canter without tiring his horse;
But I hope he won’t try and run it too fine,
For even in racing you must draw the line.”

XIV.

Yet still the bay lags behind more and more,
The ring and the stands make more noise than before;
Says Sir Ralph, “If he means pulling the bay,
I tell you beforehand, I’m d――d if I pay.”

XV.

Here they are――they have pass’d and the great race is run,
The numbers go up and all have been done――
And nothing but swearing and cursing is heard,
For the bay and his jock came in a bad third.

XVI.

Sir Ralph he swore and tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
He curst the bay; he curst the jock;
And he curst his owner like one o’clock.

XVII.

But before he departs from the scene of the tale,
To catch the first trans-Atlantic mail,
He mutters this moral, at the thought of his losses
“Mind you don’t go and put your crust in racehorses.”

From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley.
(Jones and Piggott, 16, Trinity Street, Cambridge, 1883.)

PARODIES OF SOUTHEY’S EARLY POLITICAL POEMS.

In order to explain the parodies of Southey’s political poems, it is necessary to refer to the peculiar opinions he held, and the widely varying theories he advanced, at two different periods of his life.

In Southey’s youth his friends had wished him to enter the English Church, but he, in addition to holding strong republican views, had also imbibed Socinian principles. Feeling, therefore, that he could neither conscientiously receive holy orders, nor remain happily under a purely monarchical government, he decided upon resigning both his college and his country. He enlisted his two bosom friends, Lovell and Coleridge, in his projects, and, proceeding to Bristol, there held a consultation as to the best mode of securing the liberties of the human race in future, from the designs and ambition of political rulers. The system agreed upon was that of a Pantisocracy, or society wherein all things should be in common; and the spot fixed on as the citadel of future Freedom was on the banks of the river Susquehana, in North America.

But the poverty of the three friends prevented them from putting the scheme into execution, and procuring, as they had fondly hoped, universal liberty and equality for the entire human race.

Notwithstanding this disappointment Southey’s enthusiasm in the cause of republicanism was kindled even higher than before; and, in his “Wat Tyler,” published in 1795, he advocated the principle of universal liberty and equality, with a fervour not exceeded by any writer of that agitated period. This vehemence, he lived to regret,――whether the calmer judgment of maturer years condemned the errors of those that were past,――or whether self-interest was the influencing motive for a sudden and total change of political sentiment, it is not now possible to ascertain. So complete was his change of sentiment that he employed the most active measures for the suppression of the work itself: he destroyed all the unsold copies, bought up many of those that had been distributed, and exhibited the plainest demonstration of an abandonment of his early projects and principles. Carlisle, and others, who did not hesitate to expose themselves to legal penalties, provided they could hold up a political deserter to public scorn, had the boldness to republish “Wat Tyler” without Mr. Southey’s permission. An injunction was instantly applied for by the indignant author, but Lord Eldon refused to grant this protection, on the plea that “a person cannot recover damages upon a work which in its nature was calculated to do injury to the public.” This decision encouraged the vendors of the poem, and not less than 60,000 copies are supposed to have been sold during the excitement it created. And such passages as the following were extracted from it, and widely quoted by the opposition journals:――

“My brethren, these are truths, and weighty ones.
Ye are all equal: Nature made ye so,
Equality is your birth-right;――when I gaze
On the proud palace, and behold one man
In the blood-purpled robes of royalty,
Feasting at ease, and lording over millions;
Then turn me to the hut of poverty,
And see the wretched labourer, worn with toil,
Divide his scanty morsel with his infants;
I sicken, and, indignant at the sight,
Blush for the patience of humanity.”

Nor had Southey the consolation of public sympathy, which indeed is seldom shown to such political apostates.

Henceforward Southey cast off his revolutionary opinions, and all his future writings were marked by an intolerant attachment to church and state, and servile adulation of the Royal Family. He soon reaped the reward of his apostacy, he was appointed secretary to Mr. Corry, Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland, with a salary of £350 a year, and very light duties. In 1807, the government conferred a pension of £200 a year upon him, and in 1813, on the death of Henry James Pye, he was appointed Poet Laureate. In this capacity he did not compose the usual Birthday odes, and New Year’s Day odes, as had been done by his predecessors, but he produced various courtly poems on certain important events. These appeared at irregular intervals, and there are only three which need be specially alluded to, namely, _Carmina Aulica_, written in 1814, on the arrival of the allied sovereigns in England; _Carmen Triumphale_ for the commencement of the year 1814; and _Carmen Nuptiale_, the Lay of the Laureate on the marriage of the Princess Charlotte. But last, and worst of all, was _The Vision of Judgment_, written on the death of George III, in 1820. These poems were all deeply tinged with Southey’s political prejudices, and contained the most bitter sentiments towards all who differed from his views; they provoked much animosity and ridicule at the time, and would soon have passed into utter oblivion, but for the satires and parodies they gave rise to.

Of these Lord Byron’s _Vision of Judgment_ was, of course, the most powerful, in it the Laureate received a mercilessly witty castigation, which even his admirers admitted to be not altogether unmerited, as he had gone out of his way to attack those who had done him no wrong.

The mere fact of Southey’s complete change of opinions on political and social affairs would not, in itself, have been sufficient to account for the violence of the attacks to which he was subjected. It was not only that he turned from being an ardent Republican and a Communist, to a staunch Royalist and supporter of the Aristocratic form of government, but the change came at a time when party feeling ran very high, when the great body of the people were suffering sore distress, and when his own prospects, pecuniary and social, were greatly benefitted by deserting what was then known as the popular cause.

Further, he at once proceeded with all the ardour of a pervert to violently attack all who held similar views to those he had but so lately upheld, and advised that the most severely repressive measures should betaken against them, which caused Byron to address him thus, in the opening lines of _Don Juan_:

Bob Southey! you’re a poet――Poet-Laureate,
And representative of all the race;
Although ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at
Last,――yours has lately been a common case;
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like “four and twenty blackbirds in a pye;

Which pye being open’d they began to sing”
(This old song and new simile holds good).
“A dainty dish to set before the King”
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food,――
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber’d with his hood,――
Explaining metaphysics to the nation――
I wish he would explain his explanation.

You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry Bob!

I would not imitate the petty thought
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
You have your salary was’t for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the excise.
You’re shabby fellows――true――but poets still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.

Notwithstanding all the attacks aimed at him, Southey continued to write in the interest of his patrons, and retained the office of Poet Laureate until his death in 1843, when it was conferred upon William Wordsworth, who already held a lucrative government appointment. For more complete details of the duties and emoluments connected with the post of Poet Laureate, readers may refer to my little history of the Poets Laureate of England.

The most witty and amusing attacks of Southey’s early republican poems proceeded from the pen of George Canning who started the _Anti-Jacobin Review_, a series of weekly papers, the avowed object of which was to expose the doctrines of the French Revolution, and to ridicule the advocates of that event, and the friends of peace and parliamentary reform. The editor was William Gifford, author of the _Baviad and Mæviad_, and John Hookham Frere, Lord Clare, and Lord Mornington, were amongst the contributors. Their purpose was to disparage and blacken their adversaries, and they spared no means in the attempt. Their most distinguished countrymen, whose only fault was their being opposed to the government, were treated with no more respect than their foreign adversaries, and were held up to public execration as traitors, blasphemers, and debauchees. So alarmed, however, became some of the more moderate supporters of the ministry at the violence of the language employed, that Mr. Pitt was induced to interfere, and after an existence of eight months, the _Anti-Jacobin_ (in its original form) ceased to exist.

The Poetry which appeared in the _Anti-Jacobi_n has been frequently reprinted, but the prose contents are now generally forgotten. The best of the poetry was contributed by George Canning, with some assistance from John Hookham Frere, and whilst ridiculing the utopian views of Southey, and his friends, with much point and spirit, it differed from the prose articles of the _Anti-Jacobin_ in that it contained fewer insulting personal allusions, and was generally written in a style of good humoured banter.

It was in November, 1797, that the first parody on Southey appeared, founded upon the following

INSCRIPTION.

_For the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten,
the Regicide, was imprisoned Thirty Years._

For thirty years secluded from mankind
Here Marten linger’d. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison; not to him
Did Nature’s fair varieties exist,
He never saw the sun’s delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars he pour’d a sad
And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime?

He had REBELL’D AGAINST THE KING, AND SAT
IN JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal
Our Milton worshipp’d. Blessed hopes! Awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days
When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill’d!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

INSCRIPTION.

_For the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg,
the ’Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her Execution._

For one long term, or ere her trial came,
Here BROWNRIGG linger’d. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She scream’d for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street.
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
SHE WHIPPED TWO FEMALE ’PRENTICES TO DEATH,
AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind,
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our Milton when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! but time shall come
When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal’d!

In the next number of the _Anti-Jacobin_ there was an article on JACOBIN POETRY, in which it was stated that “one of the most universally recognised principles in the Jacobin creed was that the truly benevolent mind should consider only the _severity of the punishment inflicted by human law_s without any reference to the _malignity of the crime_. It remained only to fit it with a poetical dress, which had been attempted in the inscription for Chepstow Castle, and which (we flatter ourselves), was accomplished in that for Mrs. Brownrigg’s cell.”

“Another principle, no less devoutly entertained, and no less sedulously administered, is the _natural and eternal warfare of the Poor and the Rich_.”

“This principle is treated at large by many authors, we trace it particularly in a poem by the same author from whom we borrowed our former illustration of the Jacobin doctrine of crimes and punishments. In this poem, the pathos of the matter is not a little relieved by the absurdity of the metre. The learned reader will perceive that the metre is sapphic, and affords a fine opportunity for his SCANNING and PROVING, if he has not forgotten them”:――

THE WIDOW.

Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell;
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked;
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom:
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.

Fast o’er the heath a chariot rattled by her:
“Pity me!” feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
“Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.

“Once I had friends――but they have all forsook me!
Once I had parents――they are now in heaven!
I had a home once――I had once a husband――
Pity me, strangers!

“I had a home once――I had once a husband――
I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted!”
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining;
On drove the chariot.

Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her;
She heard a horseman: “Pity me!” she groaned out,
Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining;
On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold and hunger,
Down sunk the wanderer: sleep had seized her senses.
There did the traveller find her in the morning
God had released her.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1796.

“We proceed to give our imitation, which is of the _Amœbœan_ or Collocutory kind”:――

IMITATION.

SAPPHICS.
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY, AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.[68]

_Friend of Humanity._

“Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order――
Bleak blows the blast;――your hat has got a hole in’t,
So have your breeches!

“Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives and
Scissars to grind O!’

“Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

“(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.”

_Knife-Grinder._

“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers.
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

“Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
-stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.”

_Friend of Humanity._

“_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn’d first――
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance――
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!”

[_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._]

This is generally admitted to be the best parody in the _Anti-Jacobin_, and has itself been frequently imitated. A few of the most interesting examples may be here quoted.

――――

In _John Bull_ (a London newspaper) for March 25, 1827, there was a parody on the subject of Roman Catholic emancipation, a topic then engaging much attention, although the bill on the subject was not passed until 1829.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY, AND THE BRICKLAYER’S LABOURER.

_Friend of Humanity._

Poor Roman Catholic! ere you mount the ladde
Unfold to me your melancholy story:
Soil’d is your neckcloth, and your whole apparel
Ragged and rusty.

Ah! Roman Catholic! all the proud Protestants
who to churches sometimes go on Sunday
Think you an ass for carrying the hod of
POPE DELLA GENGA.

Once your clothes were new――and how came they shabby?
Did the Home Minister throw dirt upon you?
Or did His Honour the Master of the Rolls? or
Chancellor ELDON?

Did Mr. PEEL, for killing of his game? or
Did His Honour, for denying of the _veto_?
Or JOHN LORD ELDON, because you don’t like a
Chancery lawsuit?

(Ought not O’CONNELL and SHIEL to be M.P.’s?)
Tell, without reserve, each of your privations;
Ready is my tongue the nation to rouse to
Render you justice.

_Bricklayer’s Labourer_:――

Justice! Privation!――what is it you mean, Sir?
Little do I know of our Lord the POPE, Sir,――
Father SHANGOLDEN gives me absolution
Often enough, Sir.

Secrets there are,――and those I shall not tell ye――
Captain ROCK and I can keep our own counsel;
But my clothes were spoiled long before I came here
Over from Ireland.

Give me some whiskey――_that_ is all I want now――
That makes me happy, for indeed I do not
Either for SHIEL or O’CONNELL, or the _vato_
Care a potato!

_Friend of Humanity._

I give thee whiskey――I will see thee burnt first.
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!

[_Kicks the Bricklayer’s Labourer, overturns his hod of mortar and exit in a transport of liberal enthusiasm, and universal toleration._]

――――

SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND.

_Friend of Self-Government._

Seedy cab-driver, whither art thou going?
Sad is thy fate――reduced to law and order,
Local Self-Government yielding to the grip of
Centralisation.

Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.’s,
Lording it o’er cabs, ’bus, lodging-house and graveyard,
Of the good times when every Anglo-Saxon’s
House was his castle.

Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK――
Underground foe to the British Constitution――
Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY
Thus to assail you?

Was it the growth of Continental notions,
Or was it the Metropolitan police force
Prompted this blow at _Laissez-faire_, that free and
Easiest of Doctrines?

Have you not read MR TOULMIN SMITH’S great work on
Centralisation? If you haven’t, buy it;
Meanwhile, I should be glad at once to hear your
View on the subject.

_Cab-driver._

View on the subjeck? Jiggered if I’ve got one;
Only I wants no centrylisin’, I don’t――
Which I suppose it’s a crusher standin’ sentry
Hover a cabstand,

Whereby if we gives e’er a word o’ cheek to
Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin’
And them there blessed beaks is down upon us
Dead as an ’ammer.

As for MR. TOULMIN SMITH, can’t say as I knows him,
But as you talks so werry like a gem’man,
Perhaps you’re a goin’ in ’ansome style to stand a
Shillin’ a mile, sir.

_Friend of Self-Government._

I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first――
Sixpence a mile or drive me straight to Bow Street,
Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty,
Insolent rascal!

_Punch_, July 30, 1853.

――――

LAY OF THE PROCTOR.

“Tell me, O Proctor, whither art thou going?
Thus with thy bull-dogs putting the pace on,
Thick is the rain, your bands will get spoilt, sir
So will your velvet.

Tell me now frankly what made you turn Proctor,
Was there a lady somewhere in the case, sir,
Was it from duty, or is true you’re
A misanthrope, sir?

Did you want coin to help you to marry,
Or did you feel it a duty to your College,
Or was it simply from a love of mischief
That you turned Proctor?

If ’twas the first, then I will gladly tell you
My name and College, and pay you the five shillings,
Nay more, I don’t mind giving you a trifle
To help you on, sir.”

“Trifle!! I only hope that you’re drunk, sir,
Openly to insult a Proctor daring
Thus in the streets. If you are not tipsy
You’ll be sent down, sir.

Are you aware, sir, whom you’re addressing?
One who can fine you, send you down, or gate you,
Once more I ask you, sir, _will_ you tell me
Your name and College?”

“My name and College? I’ll see thee d――d first,
Wretch, with no sense of gentlemanly feeling,
Sordid, unholy, pitiless, degraded,
Brute of a Proctor.”

(_Trips up the Proctor, knocks down Bull-dogs, and exit in transports of joy._)

WILL SCARLET.

From _The Shotover Papers, or Echoes from Oxford_, May 2, 1874.

――――

INTERVIEWED.

SCENE――_A Sea Port. Friend of Humanity (Mr. P * * * h) meeting Seafaring Person._

_Friend of Humanity_ (_loq._)――

Stranger, why so deeply blushing?
Why your hat your temples crushing?
Why strange oaths so freely gushing?
Why inclined to so much lushing?
Why your way so madly pushing?
And from haunts of seaman rushing,
Through wet streets insanely slushing,
Fretting, fuming, “tish”-ing, “tush”-ing?

_Seafaring Person._

’Cos it’s me as run the Russian
Emperor aground at Flushing!

[_They weep together._
_Punch_, May 23, 1874.

――――

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

“Russicos odi, puer, apparatus”
_Horace_ (_latest edition._)

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

“Mr. John Bull! What ever are you doing?
Turkey is crush’d, the East is out of order;
War-trumpets blow; your interests are threaten’d,
So is your honour!

“Mr. John Bull! how little thought the great ones,
Who are supposed to settle European
Questions, that you would ever be content to
Play second fiddle!

“Tell me, John Bull, have you no human feeling?
Won’t you assist these luckless lambs of Moslems?
Will you sit still and see the Russians enter
Constantinople?

“Can you allow your foe of former days thus
All undisturbed to carry on his old game?
Can you behold his arrogance, and yet not
Give him a thrashing?

“Have you not read the Special Correspondents’
Shocking accounts of Muscovite aggressions?
Will you not make a spirited retort?――I
Pause for an answer.”

JOHN BULL.

“Answer! good gracious! I have none to give, sir!
Only, I know that many papers, and the
Stock Exchange too, occasionally spread ri-
-diculous rumours.

“Often I’m told the wily tricks of Russia
Here or there put my interests in danger:
Still, they’re untouch’d, whilst quietly I keep my
Weather-eye open.

“I shall be glad to fight for British honour,
When it’s attack’d, and you of course will help me;
But, for my part, I never like to mix it
With Politics, sir.”

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

“I come and help thee! I will see thee d―――― first――
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Baffled, effete, humiliated, sordid,
Spiritless Shopman!”

[_Wisely refrains from kicking Mr. J. B., and exit in a transport of martial enthusiasm and impartial philanthropy_.]

_Funny Folks_, March 30, 1878.

――――

THE FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE, AND THE NEEDY NEW VOTER.

A contribution to modern Anti-Jacobinism.
(_Imitated from the celebrated Sapphics of Canning and Frere_.)

FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE.

NEEDY New Voter! Whither are you wending?
Bad are the times, and hard upon _your_ order.
Prices fall fast;――your stomach feels a vacuum,
So does your pocket!

Nubbly-knee’d rustic! little know the proud ones,
Who at their button flaunt the expensive orchid,
What dreary work ’tis delving all your days, and
Ending a pauper.

Tell me, Giles Joskin, whom your vote inclines to.
Is ’t the rich Rad, who only aims to use you?
Or the kind Squire? or Parson of the Parish――
Lavish of blankets?

Is it sly Joe, who’s playing his own game, or
Arch-diddler Arch? Are you the dupe of “ransom”
Or roguish land-schemes, baited with that bogus
Cow and Three Acres?

(Have you read _Popular Government_, by Sir R. Maine?)
Tears of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Tell _me_ your tale; turn up those Rads, and trust the
Pitiful Tory.

NEEDY NEW VOTER.

Tory? Lor’ bless ye, _he_ has proved a sell, Sir,
What hath he done for I, or for the farmer?
This poor old hat and breeches, yon bare acres,
Show _him_ a diddle.

Promised Protection? Boh! Can’t take _me_ in so.
Cow and Three Acres; That’s a Tory scare-crow;
But there _be_ some small hopes in altered land-laws
And small allotments.

I should be glad to think yer honour loved us;
_Might_, if ye’d been the first to gi’ us the Vote now.
But _do ut des_,[69] as Bizzy puts it; _that_ is
My politics, Sir,

FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE.

Give _thee_ the Vote? I wish we’d seen thee starve first.
Wretch! whom no thought but gain can move to gratitude;
Sordid, uncultured, Socialistic, stupid
Radical cat’s-paw!

(_Kicks the New Voter, compares him unfavourably with the intelligent Conservative Working Man, and exit in a transport of Constitutional enthusiasm and universal Anti-Jacobinism._)

_Punch_, February 6, 1886.

――――:o:――――

Again, in December, 1797, did _The Anti-Jacobin_ attack Southey’s muse, saying: “we have already hinted at the principle by which the followers of the Jacobinical sect are restrained from the exercise of their own favourite virtue of charity. The force of this prohibition, and the strictness with which it is observed, are strongly exemplified in the following poem. It is the production of the same author whose happy effort in English Sapphics we presumed to imitate; the present effusion is in Dactylics, and equally subject to the laws of Latin prosody.”

――――

THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.
_Dactylics._

Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart,
Travelling painfully over the rugged road;
Wild-visaged wanderer! Ah! for thy heavy chance.

Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted,
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back――
Meagre and livid, and screaming its wretchedness.

Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,
As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face,[70]

Thy husband will never return from the war again;
Cold is thy hopeless heart, even as charity――
Cold are thy famished babes――God help thee, widowed one!

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1795.

THE SOLDIER’S FRIEND.
(Canning’s Contrast.)

Come, little Drummer Boy, lay down your knapsack here;
I am the soldier’s friend――here are some books for you;
Nice clever books by Tom Paine, the philanthropist.

Here’s half-a-crown for you――here are some handbills too――
Go to the barracks, and give all the soldiers some,
Tell them the sailors are all in a mutiny.

(_Exit Drummer Boy, with handbills, and half-a-crown, mane Soldiers’ Friend._)

Liberty’s friends thus all learn to amalgamate,
Freedom’s volcanic explosion prepares itself,
Despots shall bow to the fasces of liberty.
Reason, philosophy, “fiddledum diddledum,
Peace and fraternity, higgledy, piggledy,
Higgledy, piggledy, “fiddledum, diddledum.”
_Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera_.

――――

In the following number of _The Anti-Jacobin_ (December 18, 1797), another parody of the same original appeared:――

THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.
_Imitation Dactylics._

(_Being the quintessence of all the Dactylics that ever were, or ever will be written._)

Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous,
Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays――
Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, “Ah! for thy heavy chance.”

Sorely thy Dactylics lay on uneven feet;
Slow is the syllable which thou would’st urge to speed,
Lame and o’erburthen’d, and “screaming its wretchedness!”

* * * * *

Ne’er talk of ears again! look at thy spelling book;
_Dilworth_ and _Dyche_ are both mad at thy quantities――
DACTYLICS, call’st thou ’em?――“God help thee, silly one!”

Both these Parodies were written by William Gifford, the Editor of the _The Anti-Jacobin_.

SOUTHEY’S OFFICIAL POEMS.

Southey wrote an ode on the first overthrow of Napoleon, entitled “_Carmen Triumphale_, for the year 1814,” this gave James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, the hint for a long and uninteresting parody “_The Curse of the Laureate, Carmen Judiciale_,” published in “The Poetic Mirror,” in 1816.

But of all Southey’s official poems “_The Vision of Judgment_,” published in 1820, on the death of George III, was the most important, and the one which received the greatest attention, praise, blame, and ridicule from his contemporaries, according to their various shades of opinion.

There are two notable instances in English literature of the respect described as having been paid by heaven to deceased kings. The first of these was the tribute paid by the servile Dryden to the memory of Charles II, entitled “_A Funeral Pindarique poem, sacred to the Happy Memory of King Charles II_,” the other was the description, by Robert Southey, of the beatification of George III, entitled “_The Vision of Judgment_.”

Of Dryden’s poem nothing need here be said, except that it contained the oft quoted lines:――

“For, e’er a prince is to perfection brought,
_He costs omnipotence a second thought_.”

Second thoughts are not always the best, and few kings have been above the average of mankind.

At the time these poems were written each author was enjoying the pension of Poet Laureate, which furnishes the only possible excuse for the blasphemy, and the fulsome adulation, which characterise the poems.

Southey’s poem, with all its faults, was scarcely so glaringly profane at that of Dryden, who spoke of the _second_ Charles, as

That all-forgiving king,
_The type of him above_!

yet Southey did not hesitate to represent the Almighty as leaving his throne especially to come down to meet the spirit of George III at the gate of heaven. Then all the spirits in heaven, and in hell, are summoned to the trial of the old king, and his accusers are ordered to stand forth to bear witness against him.

According to Mr. Southey this immaculate king had no accusers save two from amongst the fiends, and they are too terrified by his presence to bear witness against him. These are the shades of _Junius_ and _John Wilkes_, both of whom are immediately hurled away into sulphurous darkness.

After this George III is told by an angel that “_there is none to arraign him_,” which is scarcely surprising considering the summary manner in which Southey had disposed of the previous accusers.

The beatification of George follows, and he makes his triumphal entry into heaven, according to Southey, as the KING OF GLORY! The poem was written in blank verse, and consisted of twelve cantos, whereas Lord Byron’s _Vision of Judgment_ is written in rhyme, and can scarcely be styled a parody of Southey’s _Vision_. It is, besides, a rather lengthy production, and as every one has a copy of Byron’s works, it is unnecessary to insert it here. In his preface, Byron alludes to the inconsistencies of Southey’s life and opinions, and in the poem itself he causes Southey thus to describe his works to the Arch-angel Michael:

He said――(I only give the heads)――he said,
He meant no harm in scribbling; ’twas his way
Upon all topics; ’twas besides, his bread,
Of which he butter’d both sides; ’twould delay
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread),
And take up rather more time than a day,
To name his works――he would but cite a few――
“Wat Tyler”――“Rhymes on Blenheim”――“Waterloo.”

He had written praises of a regicide;
He had written praises of all kings whatever;
He had written for republics far and wide,
And then against them bitterer than ever;
For pantisocracy he once had cried
Aloud, a scheme less moral than ’twas clever,
Then grew a hearty Anti-Jacobin――
Had turn’d his coat――and would have turn’d his skin.

He had sung against all battles, and again
In their high praise and glory; he had call’d
Reviewing “the ungentle craft,” and then
Become as base a critic as e’er crawl’d――
Fed, paid, and pamper’d by the very men
By whom his muse and morals had been maul’d;
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,
And more of both than anybody knows.

He had written Wesley’s life:――here turning round
To Satan, “Sir, I’m ready to write yours,
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,
With notes, and preface, all that most allures
The pious purchaser; and there’s no ground
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:
So let me have the proper documents,
That I may add you to my other saints.”

Satan bow’d, and was silent. “Well, if you,
With amiable modesty, decline
My offer, what says Michael? There are few
Whose memoirs could be render’d more divine.
Mine is a pen of all work; not so new
As it was once, but I would make you shine
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.

“But talking about trumpets, here’s my vision!
Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision
Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall.
I settle all these things by intuition,
Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all,
Like King Alfonso. When I thus see double,
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.”

He ceased, and drew forth an M.S.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, saints,
Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so
He read the first three lines of the contents;
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
Had vanish’d, with variety of scents,
Ambrosial, and sulphureous, as they sprang,
Like lightning, off from his “melodious twang.”

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

In 1821, William Hone issued a pamphlet entitled “A SLAP AT SLOP, _and the Bridge Street Gang_,” with some clever political caricatures by George Cruikshank. This pamphlet contains several amusing parodies, notably one on Canning’s _U_-niversity _of Gottingen_, and a very close imitation of part of Southey’s “_Vision of Judgment_.”

Hone’s object was not only to ridicule Southey’s poem, but also to attack the members of _The Loyal Association_, or, as it was afterwards styled, “The Constitutional Association,” a body formed with somewhat similar objects to those of _The Primrose League_ of to-day. This society had its offices in New Bridge Street, Blackfriars, hence Hone’s term, “_Bridge Street Gang_,” its secretary was one Charles Murray, a thin, elderly man with a wooden leg; whilst “Dr. Slop” was a name borrowed by Hone from _Tristram Shandy_, and applied to Sir John Stoddart, M.D., a choleric physician, who had formerly been on the staff of _The Times_ newspaper. He had therein attacked certain persons, and opinions, so intemperately that he was discharged, according to an article in _The Times_ itself, in 1817, on account of “the virulence and indiscretion of his articles.”

He then started a journal of his own, called _The New Times_, in which the objects and proceedings of “The Constitutional Association” were constantly puffed and praised. Hone christened this paper, with doubtful taste, “The Muck Times, or Slop-pail,” and in the following parody he imitates Southey’s description of the hosts assembled in heaven to welcome George III, amongst whom only those were named whose political opinions were pleasing to the Poet Laureate.

A NEW VISION.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.! L.L.D.!!
Poet Laureate!!! &c.!!!! &c.!!!! &c.!!!