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"It is now a period of one-and-twenty years since I first wrote some of the most perfect compositions that ever dropped from poetical pen. My heart hath been right and powerful all its years. I never thought an evil or a weak thought in my life. It has been my aim and my achievement to deduce moral thunder from buttercups, daisies, Icelandines, and (as a poet scarcely inferior to myself, hath it) such small deer." Accustomed to mountain solitudes, I can look with a calm and dispassionate eye upon that fiend-like, vulture-souled, adder-fanged critic, whom I have not patience to name, and of whose Review I loathe the title, and detest the contents. Philosophy has taught me to forgive the misguided miscreant, and to speak of him only in terms of patience and pity.

My ballads are the noblest pieces of verse in the whole range of English poetry: and I take this opportunity of telling the world I am a great man. Milton was also a great man. Ossian was a blind old fool. Copies of my previous works may be had in any numbers, by application at my publisher.

Of Peter Bell I have only thus much to say it completes the simple system of natural narrative which I began so early as 1798.

It is written in that pure unlaboured style which can only be met with among labourers; and I can safely say that its occasional meaning occasionally falls far below the meanest capacity. I commit my ballad confidently to posterity. I love to read my own poetry: it does my heart good."

W. W.

The parody consists of 42 stanzas, and relates how Peter Bell, visiting the churchyard, comes across a gravestone on which is engraved W. W.

I.

IT is the thirty-first of march,

A gusty evening-half past seven ;
The moon is shining o'er the larch,
A simple shape-a cock'd up arch,
Rising bigger than a star,

Though the stars are thick in Heaven.
IV.

Beneath the ever blessed moon

An old man o'er an old grave stares,
You never look'd upon his fellow;
His brow is covered with grey hairs,
As though they were an umbrella.
VI.

'Tis Peter Bell-'tis Peter Bell,
Who never stirreth in the day;
His hand is wither'd- he is old!
On Sundays' he is us'd to pray,
In winter he is very cold.

VII.

I've seen him in the month of August, At the wheat-field, hour by hour,

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He quits that moon-light yard of skulls,
And still he feels right glad, and smiles
With moral joy at that old tomb;
Peters' cheek recalls its bloom,
And as he creepeth by the tiles,

He mutters ever-" W. W.

Never more will trouble you, trouble you."

There has been some speculation as to the author of this parody,and as far back as 1866 the following letter appeared in Notes and Queries:

"It was Reynolds, too, who, in 1819, anticipated the genuine Peter Bell of Wordsworth by a spurious Peter Bell, in which were exhibited and exaggerated the characteristics of Wordsworth's earlier simplicitas.

I knew Reynolds, and often talked to him about Peter Bell. Wordsworth's poem had been advertised, but its publication was from time to time put off. Some literary men were guessing at the cause of this delay, and one said, Wordsworth is keeping it back to elaborate. 'Elaborate!' said Reynolds, 'I'll see if I can't get one out before him.' He set to work that afternoon, and sent his poem to the printer the next evening. I think it was out about a fortnight before Wordsworth's. Up to the publication of Peter Bell, they were literary friends, and occasionally exchanged letters. The joke annoyed Wordsworth, who gave up the acquaintance."

Shelley also wrote a parody of Peter Bell.

A parody entitled "The Dead Asses, a Lyrical Ballad "

was also published in 1819, but no copy of it can be found in the British Museum Library.

1819.

"Benjamin the Waggoner, a Ryghte merrie and conceitede tale in verse." A Fragment. London, Baldwin. Anonymous. The introduction is signed Peter Plague-em. This clever burlesque of "Peter Bell," is an octavo of 96 pages, and consists of an Introduction, the poem, and some very prolix notes, all in ludicrous imitation of Wordsworth.

THERE'S Something in a glass of ale,

There's something in good sugar candy;
And when a mau is getting cold,
And when the weather's getting cold,

There's something in a glass of brandy.

There's something in Gambado's horse,
There's something in a velocipede;
That's the horse I'd like the best,
On it your book may easy rest,
And he who runs may read.

I wish I had a pair of wings,
And like the arab, a little peg;
I'd instant lay across my leg,
And rising up to other spheres,

No more should critics vex my ears.

And now I have a velocipede,

And now I have the little peg, And now I've fix'd upon it wings, And bidding adieu to earthly things, I lift, and lay across my leg.

Now I rise, and away we go,

My little hobby-horse and me; And now I'm near the planet Venus, Nothing seems to be between us, Not a bit of earth I see.

I love the words which run so easy-
Boat and float-and you and do-
Ass and grass make pretty rhyme;
Boat, I've used it many a time,

And ass-times just forty-two.

The parody is amusing, but exceedingly frivolous, as no attempt is made to do more than ridicule the simplicity of Wordsworth's diction.

LORD BYRON ON "PETER BEll."

Messrs. J. W. Jarvis & Son, booksellers, of King William Street, Strand, have a scarce little work from which they kindly allow the following extracts to be made :

The book is entitled "The Private Libraries of Philadelphia," and describes the curious Bibliographical collection made by Mr. George W. Childs, of that city.

This catalogue is by Mr. F. W. Robinson, and printed by Collins, of Philadelphia, in 1883.

Mention in it is made of a six volume edition of Lord Byron's works presented to Mr. Childs by John Murray, the publisher. In the first volume of this set is inserted a copy of Wordsworth's poem Peter Bell, a poem for which Lord Byron, who generally disliked Wordsworth's poetry, had a special aversion, and in this copy he had scribbled on the margin a parody of the commencement of the poem. This parody has not hitherto been published in England.

Wordsworth's Peter Bell commences thus:

Rydal Mount, April 7, 1819.

PROLOGUE.

THERE'S something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon:
But through the clouds I'll never float,
Until I have a little boat,

Whose shape is like the crescent moon.

And now I have a little boat,

In shape a very crescent moon :-
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail,
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up-and you shall see me soon!

Lord Byron's disgust is expressed in these lines :
Ravenna, 22 March, 1820.
EPILOGUE.

THERE'S something in a stupid ass ;
And something in a heavy dunce;
But never since I went to school
I heard or saw so damned a fool
As William Wordsworth is for once.

And now I've seen so great a fool
As William Wordsworth is for once;
I really wish that Peter Bell
And he who wrote it, were in hell,
For writing nonsense for the nonce.

I saw the "light in ninety-eight,"
Sweet Babe of one-and-twenty years!
And then he gave it to the nation,

And deems himself of Shakspeare's Peers.
He gives the perfect works to light!

William Wordsworth-if I might advise :
Content you with the praise you get,
From Sir George Beaumont, Baronet,
And with your place in the Excise.

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A MOOD OF MY OWN MIND.

MUCH grieved am I in spirit by the news of this day's post, Which tells me of the devil to pay with the paper money host:

'l'is feared that out of all their mass of promises to pay, The devil alone will get his due : he'll take them at his day.

This the first verse of one of the Paper Money Lyrics (in imitation of William Wordsworth) written by T. L. Peacock. The poem will be found in the third Volume of The Works of Thomas Love Peacock. London. R. Bentley & Son, 1875.

A great many parodies of Wordsworth are to be found in books published forty or fifty years ago, but they are, for the most part, dull and uninteresting, a few of the best only need be enumerated.

In " Warreniana." By W. F.

Old Cumberland Pedlar.
Deacon. Longman & Co., London. 1824.

The Stranger, The Flying Tailor, and James Rigg. In "The Poetic Mirror." By James Hogg. Longman & Co. London. 1816. Specimen the Fourth, in "Rejected Odes" (London, 1813), is a parody of "Alice Fell."

The Story of Doctor Pill and Gaffer Quake, after the inost approved modern style, and containing Words-worth imita

tion, appeared in Vol. 10 of The Satirist (London.) This is a long and spiteful parody of Goody Blake and Harry Gill, which was first published in Lyrical Ballads (Bristol) in 1798. "Tim the Tacket, a lyrical ballad, supposed to be written by W. W." is to be found in Poetical Works by William Motherwell, Paisley. Alexander Gardner. 1881. It is a fairly good imitation of style, and might pass for one of Wordsworth's minor ballads.

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WORDSWORTH AS POET LAUREATE. On the death of Robert Southey, in 1843, the appointment of Poet Laureate was offered to Wordsworth. At first he declined on the plea that he was too far advanced in life to undertake the duties of the office; thereupon Sir Robert Peel wrote :-"Do not be deterred by the fear of any obligations which the appointment may be supposed to imply. I will undertake that you shall have nothing required from you." Thus pressed, Wordsworth accepted the title and the pension, he being already in the receipt of a handsome annuity from the Government. The warrant was dated April 6, 1843, and he retained the office till his death in 1850. He wrote a sonnet on the occasion of his appointment, which for vanity and egotism is probably unparallelled in literature, but beyond this he paid little further attention, either to the office, or its ancient duties.*

MR. WORDSWORTH'S SUPPOSED ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF H.R.H. PRINCE ALBERT AT CAMBRIDGE, JUNE, 1847. (Exclusive.) I.

SONS of the Cam, awake!

Come, stir, ye sleeping elves;

Arise, or else your Prince will take

A rise out of yourselves.

Fast man, come breakfast faster,

For a detailed account of this appointment and its pay, privileges, and duties, see The Poets Laureate of England, by Walter Hamilton. (London, Reeves and Turner.)

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Where art thou, learned Whewell?
Thy "euge! "haste and utter;
If tired of giving freshmen gruel,
Come give the Prince fresh butter.
If all be true that Cantabs state,
Thy cant-ability is great.

Come, meek of speech, and bland of style,
Come, smile as thou wert wont to smile.
At fairs, you know, for hats they grin,
But here for mitres-come begin,

Lack you a theme for laughter? better
Think of your own election letter ;

Or of your epitaph-" Here Whewell lies,
Master of Arts-that caused himself to rise."

IV.

Throw up your caps in fury, O!
Shout till you're hot and red,
Tam marti, quam Mercurio,

Dear is your chosen head.
He holds a baton and its true,
That Wellington can't carry two.
Waste ye the midnight oil by pails

Your chieftain claims the Prince of Wales.
At home his window-view explores
Those classic scenes displayed,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade.

He's fit to rule, with gifts like these,
Cam-nay, Kamskatcha-if he please.
From The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.

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Born October 21, 1772.

Died July 25, 1834.

The poetical fame of Coleridge rests principally upon The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and Christabel, both of which are so well known that it is quite unnecessary to reprint them, especially as Messrs. Ward, Lock & Co. have recently published a very cheap and handy edition of the miscellaneous poems of Coleridge, containing the above, as well as some other poems which, being less known, have not given rise to so many parodies.

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THE ANCIENT MARINER.

This weird poem was founded on a strange dream which a friend of Coleridge had, who fancied he saw a skeleton ship, with figures in it. Wordsworth wrote a few lines of it, and the idea of shooting an albatross appears to have been his. As Coleridge himself informs us, it was planned and partly composed during a walk with Wordsworth and his sister, in the autumn of 1797. It was first published in 1798, in a volume entitled Lyrical Ballads, with a few other Poems," Bristol,

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1798. It is the opening poem of the volume, and is quaintly styled "The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere," in seven parts. Most of the other poems in the volume were written by Wordsworth. The first version contained a stanza (the eleventh in Part III.) which has been omitted from all subsequent reprints :

"His bones were black with many a crack,
All black and bare I ween;

Jet black and bare, save where with rust,

Of mouldy damps and charnel crust

They were patch'd with purple and green."

The First Part, which is that most frequently parodied, is given below:

PART I

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
May'st hear the merry din."

He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he.

"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon !" Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye

The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

"The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the light-house top.

The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noonThe Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man
The bright-eyed Mariner.

"And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen;

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an albatross,
Through the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew,
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ;
The helmsman steered us through!

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