of which he was so distinguished an ornament—were as much a perpetration on decency and the canons of poetry, as his very first act as an administrator was arbitrary. Where he had failed as a poet his party had generously given him a chance to succeed as an autocrat. And his one idea of autocracy presumably was to persecute the weak, as the only way to convince them he was powerful. Lord John Manners was a poet, and a poetic revenge was to be wreaked on him by one of his victims. The generous impulse which had prompted the defeated men to subscribe for a Christmas dinner for those who had suffered for them, had been promptly strangled by the officials acting under the direction of the Postmaster-General. So it was attempted to raise a small sum for the distressed men by the sale outside the Post-Office gates of a leaflet bearing the following impression:— THE LOCKED-OUT SORTERS OF THE GENERAL POST-OFFICE _To Lord John Manners, Her Majesty’s Postmaster-General_ What ails my lord to seek his doom, Why hurl into the winter gloom His slaves of Want and Pain? Art thou not of noble blood— And noble only to be good?— Then why insult thy name? Didst thou not write with poet’s flame To save our ancient nobles’ name, Their rank and chivalry; Then why disgrace that ancient shrine The only fount to _thee_ divine, Why _damn_ their memory? Democracy will laugh with scorn And know a noble fool is born To curse his pedigree. ’Tis this oppression and this shame, Deeds done beneath a _noble_ name Will kill thy line for thee? Art thou of human love possest, With heart beneath thy silken vest, To claim thyself a man? Art thou a husband, father, say, With _home_ that none can take away, To bless thy earthly span? Bright jewels deck thy lady’s head, Thy children never wanted bread, Born into luxury. Thy princely mansion so secure, Thy hands nor _head_ could ne’er procure This gift of _destiny_. … The want and suffering that your hand Has brought a helpless, martyr’d band, Will cry against your _deed_; The orphan’s tears will _burn_ your soul, And curse you to the final goal, _Where mercy you will plead!_ THOMAS HENRY GLAMORGAN (one of the men). LONDON, _January 1875_. Glamorgan’s verse was as the last vehement cry of despairing freedom in the Post-Office. The forces of discontent had been humbled and demoralised, if not wholly scattered; and liberty, cowering in a corner, was to remain dumb for many a day to come. CHAPTER X