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.)

[Illustration]

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_.

[Illustration]

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.!!!

’Twas at that sober hour when the light of day is receding, I alone in SLOP’S office was left; and, in trouble of spirit, I mused on old times, till my comfort of heart had departed. Pensile at least I shall be, methought――_sus per coll._ surely! And therewithal felt I my neckcloth; when lo! on a sudden, There came on my eyes, hanging midway ’twixt heaven and St. James’s, The book called the Pension List. There did I see my name written. Yea even in that great book of life! It was sweet to my eye-lids. As dew from a tax! and _Infinity_ seem’d to be open, And I said to myself. “Now a blessing be on thee, my Robert! And a blessing on thee too my pen! and on thee too my sack-but!”

Now, as thus I was standing, mine ear heard a rap at the street-door, Ev’n such as a man might make bold with, half gentle, half footman; And lo! up the stairs, dotting one, one, after the other, Came the leg of a wonder, hop! hop! through the silence of evening And then a voice snarling from the throat of him they call MURRAY, Who said, as he hopp’d, “must the _Muck Times_ be mournful at _all_ times? Lo, SLOP, I’ve a sop, for your mop; yes――hop! hop! I’ve a _story_, With which I’ll light _you_ up, if you’ll light me, Slop, up another.”

“Don’t be so _bold_!” methought _a larking_ voice from the skylight Answer’d, and therewithal I felt fear as of frightening; Knowing not why, or how, my soul seem’d night-cap to my body. Then came again the voice, but then with a louder squalling―― “Go to HELL” said the voice, “What, I?” said I inwardly, “I go?” When lo, and behold, a great wonder! I, I, ROBERT SOUTHEY, Even I, ROBERT SOUTHEY, _Esquire_, L.L.D. POET LAUREATE, Member of the Royal Spanish Academy, of the Ditto of History too, of the Institute Royal Of Dutchland, and eke of the Welch Cymmodorion wonder, Author of Joan of Arc, of much Jacobin verse, and Wat Tyler, Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, (For it’s unknown all the things that I am, and have written), I, as I said before, ev’n I, by myself, I, Unlike in that single respect, to my great master Dante, (For Virgil went with him to help him), but like in all others, Rush’d up into PARADISE boldly, which angels themselves don’t, Yea ev’n into Paradise rush’d I, through showers of _flimsies_, All as good as the Bank, and for hailstones I found there were _Sovereigns_ Spick and span new; and anon was a body all glorified Even all the great HOST both of CHURCH and STATE, Crosses, Grand Crosses, Commanders, Companions, and Knights of all possible orders, Commons and Peers, the souls of the sold, whom pensions made perfect, Flocking on either hand, a multitudinous army, Coronet, Crosier and Mitre, in grand semicircle inclining, Tier over tier they took their place, aloft in the distance, Far as the sight could pierce, Stars, Garters, and Gold Sticks. From among the throng bless’d, all full dress’d, in a Field Marshal’s uniform, Rose one, with a bow serene, who, aloft, took his station; Before him the others crouched down, all inclining in concert, Bent like a bull-rush sea, with a wide and a manifold motion: There he stood in the mid’st alone; and in front was the presence, With periwig curling and gay, and a swallow-cut coat tail.

Hear ye of long ears! Lo! in that place was _Canning_,[71] He who strengthens the Church and State, with his Manton’s hair-triggers, And sneers on his lips, and eyes leering, and _rapturous_ speeches; With him _Fletcher Franklin_ I saw, and _Sir Robert_, my namesake, Worthy the name! even _Baker_, Sir Robert, of Bow-street; And _Gifford_, with face made of lachrymose, savage and feeble, Who delighteth with _Croker_ to cut up men, women, and young men, And therefore did _Hazlitt_ cut _him_ up, and so he stood mangled, There, too, brocaded and satin’d, stood smiling and bowing, With court-mask’d appearance, the _Fearful One_, him of _Triangle_! And there, too, the _Foolish_ one, _circular_-conscienced, the _Doctor_! And I saw in the vision, the _Generals_, _Sol_ and _Attorney_; And _Sacchi_, was there too, and him surnamed _Non-mi Ricordo_; And _Mademoiselle Daemon_, and _Barbara Kress_, and _Rastelli_; And _Mister_, and _Mister-ess Jessop_, and eke the _Miss Jessops_; And _Mar――――ss H――――d_, and _M――――ss C――――m_, also;

And _Mrs. Fitzherbert_, and _C――ch_; and in sooth all the _Beauties_ Of the “GEORGIAN _Age_”; except _Robinson Mary_,[72] Whom great G. first sent to the D―――― and little G. after, (Namely _Gifford_, who smote at her sorely, yea, ev’n at her crutches, So that she fell in her grave, and said, “cover me kind earth!”) And the great-minded _Cl_―― was there, looking like to Behemoth; And the _Lauderdale_ disinterested, great Scotch standard-bearer, And there, too, the King’s much-conspired-against-stationer, _King_, stood, The Lord Mayor of Dublin, who sendeth his Majesty’s whiskey; And the members of _Orange Clubs_, all, anti-Irish shillelaghs; And a heav’nly assembly of _parsons_, some lately expectant―― Parson _Hey_, Parson B. called, otherwise, Parson _Blackcow_, divine brute! Parson C., alias _Croly_, or _Crawley_, or Coronaroly, Who putteth forth innocent pamphlets on pure coronations, Expecteth Milleniums, and audeth the _Blackguard_ of Blackwood’s, And looketh both lofty and slavish, a dreariness high-nosed, As if he had, under the chin been, by worshipful men, chuck’d; And great Parson _Eat-all-stone_, who’d swallow _any_ thing surely; And the _Manchester Yeamanry Cavalry_, riding down women; And _Alderman Atkins_, with _Curtis_, that _big belly_-gerent; And _Flower_, and _Bridges_, _C. Smith_, and the rest of the BRIDGE GANG; All cloth’d for the heav’nly occasion in their _best_ Indictments! And there all the _Lottery Contractors_,[73] and such like, were also; And there Mr. _Strong-i-th-arm_, his Majesty’s Seal Engraver, was also; And they all who _forged_, lo! the French Assignats, were there also; And the _Court Newsman_ also was there―― (The Spirit now bids me write _prose_, but that, you know’s all the same thing.) And _Colburn_ with his _Muck Monthly Magazine_ was there; And _Ward_ the animal Painter, with a piece of spoil’d canvas, 35 feet wide by 21, was there; But _Bird_ who, most disloyally, died of a broken heart, was not there; And the _Duke of Wellington_, with his Sword of State was there; And _Sir John Silvester_, the Recorder of London, and his _assistant_ were there; And Messrs. _Rundell and Bridge_, the Jewellers who repair’d the Crown were there, And the _Pigtails_ cut off from his Majesty’s guards were there; And the guards themselves in their _next_ uniforms, and new white gaiters, were there; And the _State Coach and Coachman and Horses_ were there; And the _other Ministers of State_ in the new State liveries were there; And the _Clerks of the Council_ and the _two Silver Inkstands_ were there; And all the Gentlemen of the _Stock Exchange_ were there; And all the Gentlemen of the _Shipping Interest_ were there; And all the Gentlemen of the _Landed Interest_ were there; But all the people _without Interest_ were not there; And all the _Peers_ who voted the Queen of England _guilty_ were there; And all the _Ministerial Members_ of the House of Commons were there; And Dr. _Slop_ with ‘_fresh_ fig leaves for _Adam_ and _Eve_[74],’ was there; And the _Royal Proclamation_ against Vice and Immorality was pasted up there; And behold, while I read it, thinking to put it, excellent as it was, into language still better, Methought, in my vision, I dreamt――dream within dream intercircled―― And seem’d to be hurried away, by a vehement whirlwind, To FLAMES and SULHPHUROUS DARKNESS, where certain of my _Minor Poems_ were scorching, Yet unconsumed, in penal fire; and _so_ was _I_ purified, For deeds done in the flesh, being, through them, burnt by proxy, There, too, roasted the Bishop of Osnaburgh’s _Doxy_,[75] But the Righteous-one, _the Prince-Bishop himself_, was in Heaven; And _two boots_[76] were there, as a burnt offering for _pecadillo_, But the _Owner_ thereof was a glorified spirit above, Whereof, as in duty bound, I had sung to him “Twang-a-dillo, He that loves a pretty girl, is a hearty good fellow!” And _in Torment_ (but here the blest rage of the bard returns on me) And in torment was _She_, who, on earth, had been also tormented By _Him_ who is never, nor can be accused, of aught _vicious_; With her were the friends of my childhood――not leaving out _Coleridge_; And they who were _killed_ by the Manchester Yeomanry also; And _Truth_, the whole Truth, nothing _but_ the Truth, suffered the burning. Then I turn’d my meek eyes, in their gladness, to Heaven, and my _place_ there, And ascending, I flew back to Paradise, singing of Justice; Where, fill’d with divine expectation of merited favour, The gathering host look’d to him, in whom all their hopes center’d, As the _everlasting_ hand; and I, too, press’d forward to obtain―― But old recollections withheld me; down, down, dropped my sack-but, And my feet, methought slid, and I fell precipitate. Starting, Then I awoke, with my hair up, and lo! my young days were before me, Dark yet distinct; but instead of the voice of the honest, I heard only Murray’s _Yap! yap!_ and _hop! hop!_ through the silence of evening: _Yap! hop!_ and _hop! yap!_ and hence came the hop, step, and jump of my verses.

――――:o:――――

CARMEN TRIUMPHALE. BY R.S.P.L.

Last eve as I sate in my room that looks o’er the church of Saint Clement, (_Nota Bene_: I had but of late arrived in town upon business,) I ordered my boots for a walk, my boots that polished and pointed, Bright on their surface display the beauty of Warren’s jet blacking: Now you must know that my man, in his speed to reply to my summons, Brought me my Wellington boots, but never once thought of the boothooks; So to allay my spleen by calm and ennobling reflections, Such as might wile the time disturb’d by my valet’s omission, I sate me down in a chair, and thus apostrophised Warren. “Pontiff of modern art! whose name is as noted as mine is, Noted for talent and skill, and the cardinal virtues of manhood Receive this tribute of praise from one whose applause is an honour, I am he who sang of Roderick, the last of the Goths, and Gothic enough it was, I’m told, in metre and meaning; Thalaba too was mine, that wild and wondrous effusion, Madoc and Joan of Arc, and the splendid curse of Kehama; If I then, the author of these and other miraculous volumes, And a laurell’d bard to boot, laud thee, oh my Warren, in epic Verse, both peasant and peer will echo thy name o’er the West end, And thus shall it be with the man whom S――y delighteth to honour, Already I hear thy puffs discussed in the circle at Almack’s, Dusking with sable shade the light of the Scotch Ariosto Already I hear them arranged for the violincello by Smart, and Melting on syren lips in lieu of Italian bravuras: Braham at Drury Lane, the Stephens at proud Covent Garden, Dwell on each soul stirring rhyme as a lover dwells on the moonlight, When by its virgin beam his nymph hurries onward to kiss him.

“Through thee in the season of spring, oh pride of the modern creation!!! Beauty sets off by night each grace of her whirligig ankle, When to the music of harps in dulcet symphonies sounding, She waltzes with twinkling twirl, and butterfly bucks hover round her; Thee she hails as a friend, while her pumps, in the pride of their polish, Illumine the ball-room floor like the slippers of famed Cinderella,―― In Brighton thy name is known, and waxeth important at Cheltenham; Travels _per coach_ to Bath, that exceedingly beautiful city; Thence crossing the channel to Wales, it stirs up attention at Swansea; Or flees with the speed of a dove o’er the mountainous ridges of Snowden, Till valley, and rock, and glen ring aloud with ‘Buy Warren’s Blacking.’ “But not unto Britain alone is thy fame, Robert Warren, confined: o’er The civilised regions of Europe, believe me, ’tis equally honoured; For when, as a proof of the fact, I rambled through Switzerland lately; And, spent with the labour of travel, put up in the vale of Chamouny, My boots by the waiter were bathed in the luminous dew of thy blacking: This, as you well may guess, astonished my nerves not a little; So, flaming with zeal, I said, ‘now tell me, oh waiter, I pray thee, Th’ extent of this tradesman’s fame in the vales of the Switzer, that straight I May note it down as a hint for some future edition of travels, Then blythe the waiter assured me that through Chamouny, the splendour Of Warren’s name beamed joy, as the snow on the summit of Jura, Tinged by the occident ray, sheds glory and gladness around it, While villages bask in its smiles:――meantime I continued my Carmen,―― Thrice honoured artist, who hast a minstrel like me to commend thee! Year upon year may roll, but you never will get such another; For I am the bard of time, the puffer of peer or of peasant, Whether Russ, German, or French, Whig, Radical, Ultra, or Tory, Provided my _sack-butt_ is paid with a _butt of sack_ for each bouncer Hence, nobles are proud to bow to my laurelled head at Saint James’s, Deeming his Majesty’s grace dispensed through me, for they well know His Majesty loves in his heart my political creed (_Nota Bene_――I will not swear that he does; but is it not likely, oh Europe?)”

Here I concluded my stave, for my valet returned with my boot-hooks; So taking my hat in my hand a remarkably requisite practice, I sought that widening gulf where the Strand with a murmur susurrous Flows into Pall Mall East, like Thames at the Nore into ocean; Here I stood rapt awhile, commending the buildings around me, Especially Waterloo Place, with which I was highly delighted; Till hearing the clock strike eight, I returned to my Strand habitation, And heard the bell from St. Clement’s toll, toll through the silence of evening.

From _Warreniana_, by W. F. Deacon. (Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green, London, 1824.)

――――:o:――――

“_The Satirist, or Monthly Meteor_” for September 1, 1813, contained several burlesque applications for the Laureatship, then vacant through the recent death of Henry James Pye.

None of the poems is of sufficient interest co be worth reprinting, the authors supposed to be imitated are Hannah More, George Colman, Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Dr. Thomas Busby, Thomas Campbell, Walter Scott, George Crabbe, W. H. Fitzgerald, and Robert Southey.

The burlesque of Southey concludes thus:――

“Then what a happy Prince you’ll be With a Poet Laureate such as me; When duly here, to George the Regents praise, My Prince, as with an angel’s voice of song, Pours my melodious lays Upon the gales of even, And sounding strenuous like a gong, I lift his fame to th’ north-west gates of heaven, Such harmony to all my notes is given.”

[Illustration]

EPITAPH FOR ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., POET LAUREATE AUTHOR OF “WAT TYLER, &c., &c.

Dignus auribus Principis――HORAT.

Here lies our good Laureat, whom _Byron_ has sent hence, Without any time for “a death-bed repentance,[77] Of his sapphics, so cruelly mangled by _Canning_―― So safely remov’d both from sense and from scanning;[78] (For our Laureat dealt largely in sapphics seditious,[79] Before he got scent of the loaves and the fishes), Or his Botany Eclogues, from which one would swear That the Poet had learnt his morality there.[80] _Poor Joan_[81] ever doom’d to be burnt in our ire, Once more by all England condemn’d to the fire. Sure _Southey_, like _Bedford_, was born for thy curse, And we burn thee again, to atone for his verse. Next _Thalaba_ came, that selfslaying destroyer, Of readers and conjurors too the annoyer; Let him murder magicians, and all their relations, But why did he murder our rhyme[82] and our patience? Then _Madoc’s_ adventures so ably were sung, You’d think they were told in his own native tongue.[83] For the curse of _Kehama_ one cannot help dreading it, The curse is so cursedly felt in the reading it. Then a Monarch of Spain――how strange he should blast one! For though he’s a _Goth_ he might surely have past one, Since he is (_the Belov’d_ not excepted) the last one.[84] But as soon as our bard got attach’d to the crown, He try’d to sing up what he used to sing down;―― One day _Bribery’s_ slave and the next its reviler, Praising Castlereagh now, and now praising Wat Tyler,[85] To constraint and corruption now bidding defiance, And now lauding the deeds of the Holy Alliance.[86] Enduring the scorn of all England most martyrly, Secure that his sores would be lick’d by the _Quarterly_. Then forth came that Letter, or crack “branding iron,” Which the Laureat so cackles about to Lord _Byron_,[87] That letter so famous, in which he advances Truths such as you find in the Spanish Romances, Traduced by our Bard, who contriv’d in abridging all, To make one, _for shortness_, desire the original. Next like some “obscene birds” of his feather, he flew To prey on the stain of thy field, Waterloo![88] Then returned to o’ershade, with his sad gratulation,[89] An event that awak’d all the hopes of a Nation, And surely the Laureat alone could have told it, In rhymes, that had _Sternhold_ himself out-Sternholded. Then _Byron_ and _Juan_ eternally lamming him, Play’d the devil with him――so he set about damning him; And if to his foes or his friends he a grudge meant, What could he do worse than his _Vision of Judgment_! But ’twas fit that this model of tergiversation, Who began in sedition, should end in damnation. To atone for all this, what must now be his lot? Shall he “lie” like his Works “in obstruction and rot?” No――let him be punished by quitting his urn to See all the “vile uses” they’re sure to return to.

_The Spirit of the Public Journals for_ 1823, London, 1824.

[Illustration]

THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

As the early poems of Robert Southey were repeatedly parodied in this celebrated journal, a few words as to its contents may conveniently be inserted here. “_The Anti-Jacobin, or Weekly Examiner_,” was edited by W. Gifford, and the principal contributors to its pages were the Rt. Hon. George Canning, Mr. John Hookham Frere, Mr. Jenkinson (afterwards Earl of Liverpool), Mr. George Ellis, Lord Clare, Lord Mornington (afterwards Marquis Wellesley), and Dr. John Whittaker. The Poems in _The Anti-Jacobin_ were not exclusively political, and the following is a list of all that can be properly termed Parodies, omitting only those which have already been included in the collection of Parodies on Southey.

_La Sainte Guillotine_, a new song attempted from the French. (_Tune_――“O’er the vine-covered hills and gay regions of France.”)

_The Progress of Man_, a Didactic poem. Written to ridicule Mr. R. Payne Knight’s _The Progress of Civil Society_, a Didactic Poem.

_Chevy Chase_, a parody founded upon the Duke of Northumberland’s attempt to evade the payment of Income Tax.

_The Loves of the Triangles_, a parody of Dr. Darwin’s _Loves of the Plants_.

_Brissot’s Ghost_, a parody on Glover’s Ballad of _Admiral Hosier’s Ghost_.

_Ode to Jacobinism_, a political parody of Gray’s _Hymn to Adversity_.

_The Jacobin_, a political skit, written in imitation of Southey’s Sapphics, but not so good as the examples already quoted, and dealing with obsolete facts and forgotten individuals.

_Ode to a Jacobin_, in imitation of Suckling’s _Ode to a Lover_.

_The Anti-Jacobin_ also contained several humorous imitations of Horace, and a burlesque play, founded on some German dramas, translations of which were then being performed in England to the detriment, and discouragement of English dramatists. The greater portion of this amusing work was written by Canning, it was entitled “_The Rovers; or, the Double Arrangement_,” and has passages which parody _The Robbers_, and several other plays by Schiller: _Stella_ by Goethe, and _Count Benyowsky, or, the Conspiracy of Kamschatka_.

THE ROVERS.

The second scene of the first act contains the gem of the burlesque. It opens thus:――

_Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh with coffins, escutcheons, death’s heads, and cross-bones,――toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of the stage.――ROGERO appears, in chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head――beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance.――A long silence, during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns.――ROGERO rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded._

ROGERO. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living sepulchre, the cruelty of a Minister――the perfidy of a Monk――yes, Matilda! for thy sake――alive amidst the dead――chained――coffined――confined――cut off from the converse of my fellowmen. Soft! what have we here? (_stumbles over a bundle of sticks._) Oh! the register of my captivity. Let me see; how stands the account? Eleven years and fifteen days!――Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my Matilda. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her more.… Soft, what air was that! it seems a sound of more than human warblings. Again, (_listens attentively for some minutes._) Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that melancholy air, which has so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar.

(_Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air_, _with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra. Air, Lanterna Magica._

SONG. _By Rogero._