Solution Manual for South-Western Federal

Taxation 2020: Individual Income Taxes, 43rd

Edition, James C. Young
Full download chapter at: https://testbankbell.com/product/solution-manual-for-south-
western-federal-taxation-2020-individual-income-taxes-43rd-edition-james-c-young/
CHAPTER 1
AN INTRODUCTION TO TAXATION
AND UNDERSTANDING THE FEDERAL TAX LAW

SOLUTIONS TO PROBLEM MATERIALS

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. (LO 1, 4)
a. John must now document rental receipts and separate his home expenses between personal
and rental use, and he may be subject to the transient occupancy tax.
b. Theresa has become self-employed. Now she will be subject to self-employment tax and may
have to make quarterly installment payments of estimated income and self-employment tax.
Theresa will be required to make payroll tax payments if she hires individuals to work in her
business.
c. Paul’s employer might have some moving expenses that it can deduct (in general, Paul cannot
deduct moving expenses). Paul’s personal taxes will change because Florida does not impose
an income tax but California does.
2. (LO 1, 4) The income tax consequences that result are Marvin’s principal concern. Any rent he
receives is taxed as income, but operating expenses and depreciation will generate deductions that
offset some or all of the income or even yield a loss. Marvin must also consider the effect of other
taxes. Because the property is being converted from residential to commercial use, he can expect an
increase in the ad valorem property taxes levied by the local (and perhaps even the state) taxing
authorities. Besides the real estate taxes, personal property taxes could be imposed on the furnishings.
3. (LO 2) The statement is only partly correct. The Federal income tax on corporations was not a
problem since it had previously been sanctioned by the Supreme Court. What had been declared
unconstitutional was the tax on individuals as it applied to the income from property.
4. (LO 2) To finance our participation in World War II, the scope of the income tax was expanded
considerably—from a limited coverage of 6% to over 74% of the population. Hence, the description
of the income tax as being a “mass tax” became appropriate.

© 2020 Cengage®©. May

2020not
Cengage ®
be scanned,
. Maycopied
not beor
scanned,
duplicated,
copied
or posted
or duplicated,
to a publicly
or posted
accessible
to a publicly
website,
accessible
in wholewebsite,
or in part.
in whole or in part.
 5. (LO 2) For wage earners, the tax law requires employers to withhold a specified dollar amount from
wages paid to the employee to cover income taxes and payroll taxes. Persons with nonwage income
generally are required to make quarterly payments to the IRS for estimated taxes. Both procedures
ensure that taxpayers will be financially able to meet their annual tax liabilities. That is, the amounts
withheld are meant to prepay the employee’s income taxes and payroll taxes related to the wages
earned.
6. (LO 3) The tax law of State X appears to violate the certainty and simplicity principles.
7. (LO 3) A tax is proportional if the rate of tax remains constant for any given income level. The tax is
progressive if a higher rate of tax applies as the tax base increases.

1-1

© 2020 Cengage®©. May

2020not
Cengage ®
be scanned,
. Maycopied
not beor
scanned,
duplicated,
copied
or posted
or duplicated,
to a publicly
or posted
accessible
to a publicly
website,
accessible
in wholewebsite,
or in part.
in whole or in part.
1-2 2020
An Introduction
Individual Income
to Taxation
Taxes/Solutions
and Understanding
Manual the Federal Tax Law 1-3

8. (LO 4)
a. The parsonage probably was not listed on the property tax rolls because it was owned by a tax-
exempt church. Apparently, the taxing authorities are not aware that ownership has changed.
b. Ethan should notify the authorities of his purchase. This will force him to pay back taxes but
may eliminate future interest and penalties.
9. (LO 4) Although the Baker Motors bid is the lowest, from a long-term financial standpoint, it is the
best. The proposed use of the property by the state and the church probably will make it exempt from
the school district’s ad valorem tax. This would hardly be the case with a car dealership. In fact,
commercial properties (e.g., car dealerships) often are subject to higher tax rates.
10. (LO 4)
a. In this case, the “tax holiday” probably concerns exemption from ad valorem taxes.
“Generous” could involve an extended period of time (e.g., 10 years) and include both realty
and personalty.
b. The school district could be affected in two ways. First, due to the erosion of the tax base,
less revenue would be forthcoming. Second, new workers would mean new families and
more children to educate.
11. (LO 4) A possible explanation is that Sophia made capital improvements (e.g., added a swimming
pool) to her residence and her parents became retirees (e.g., reached age 65).
12. (LO 4) Presuming that the dockage facilities are comparable in Massachusetts, the Morgans may be
trying to avoid ad valorem taxes. Taxes on nonbusiness property vary from one state to another and
are frequently avoided.
13. (LO 4) In general, Federal excise taxes apply to fewer items than in the past. Lawmakers have
focused on, and increased, certain Federal excise taxes (e.g., those on tobacco products, gasoline, and
air travel).
14. (LO 4) Herman could have been overcharged, but at least part of the excess probably is attributable to a
hotel occupancy tax and a car rental tax. In major cities, these types of excise taxes have become a
popular way of financing capital improvements such as sports arenas and stadiums. Consequently, the
amount of the taxes could be significant.
15. (LO 4) An excise tax is limited to a particular transaction (e.g., sale of gasoline), whereas a general
sales tax covers a multitude of transactions (e.g., sale of all nonfood goods).
a. The following states do not impose a general sales tax: Alaska, Delaware, Montana, New
Hampshire, and Oregon.
b. There is no Federal general sales tax.

16. (LO 4)
a. Jackson County must be in a state that imposes a lower (or no) sales tax. With certain major
purchases (i.e., big-ticket items), any use tax imposed by the state of the Grays’ residence
could come into play.
b. In some states, the sales tax rate varies depending on the county and/or city.

Note: Generally, buyers are subject to the sales and use tax rate where they live. Thus, for example, if
the Grays buy goods in a different state with zero or a lower sales tax rate than in their state, they owe
use tax to their home state for the difference.

© 2020 Cengage®©. May

2020not
Cengage ®
be scanned,
. Maycopied
not beor
scanned,
duplicated,
copied
or posted
or duplicated,
to a publicly
or posted
accessible
to a publicly
website,
accessible
in wholewebsite,
or in part.
in whole or in part.
 Another random document
un-related content on Scribd:
 The guests are met—and ev’ry brow unbent,
Swift circles round the draught of potent power,
Inspiring mirth, and banishing restraint.

Now crowd the Christmas dainties on the sight,

And all the room is hush’d in silence deep;
Save where the plates with jarring sounds unite,
And busy jaws a ceaseless murmur keep.

Save that from yonder bench, with hollow groan,

The faithful Tray does to himself complain
Of those that, mindful of themselves alone,
Allow him not a portion to obtain.

Around that friendly board, with plenty spread

Where rise the bones in many a greasy heap,
Each in his easy chair supinely laid,
The Sons of toil their annual revel keep.

The forest moaning hollow in the gale;

The cold and cheerless winds surcharg’d with snow;
The headlong torrent rushing down the vale;
Compel them not their banquet to forego.

For them no far-fetcht luxuries are spread,

Nor costly Burgundy their care beguiles:
Yet Peace and Plenty at their table-head
Are seen, with all their family of smiles.

Oft did they fast throughout the by-gone year,

Their looks confirm the truth of what I say;
How patiently they bore their lot severe!
How did they welcome this auspicious day!

Oh! let not Lux’ry mock their diet plain,

Their flowing can, and toasts of pretty maids;
Nor titled Pride behold, with proud disdain,
The poor, but neat, repast, that Labour spreads.
The crowd, that forms sweet smiling Pleasure’s train,
And all that fickle fortune’s favours share,
Confess alike the iron sway of pain;
The paths of power are but the paths of care.

Nor you, ye rich! account it as a fault,

Though at their board no chosen wines are plac’d
Where the inspiring quintessence of malt,
Lulls every sorrow, every care to rest.

Can luxury’s sons in bloom, or vigour, vie

With those of industry and toil severe?
Can creams and jellies taste like yonder pye;
Or claret string the nerves like nappy beer?

Perhaps at this carousal might be found,

Some heart that oft has bled at Mis’ry’s cry;
Hands that could hurl oppression to the ground,
Or wipe the falling tear from Sorrow’s eye.

But these hard times a cheerless gloom have thrown

O’er all their smiling prospects of delight;
Chill Penury, with heart-apalling frown,
And hollow eye, now stands before their sight.

Full many a tear bedims Misfortune’s eye,

And, streaming from its source, unseen descends.
Full many a sad and unavailing sigh
Is breath’d in secret—and with ether blends.

Some unknown Howard, that, with pity smit,

Has oft explor’d Affliction’s sad retreat;
Some poor unhonour’d Nelson here may sit;
Some Burns, that sings and struggles with his fate.

Th’ applause of jolly topers to obtain,

At feasts to crack a bottle with Lord May’r;
To scour the watch along some dirty lane,
 And rend with loud huzzas the midnight air,

Fortune forbids.—Nor circumscribes alone

Their pleasures, but their sorrows too confines;
Forbids in private sadly to bemoan
The gout and all the ills debauch combines;

The treach’rous perfidy of friends to prove,

To lose at play a fortune, madly driven;
Or, for some loose-rob’d wanton strumpet’s love,
Risk life, and all their future hopes of heav’n.

Far from the hamlet, where their fathers grew,

The sons have never wish’d nor sought to stray;
Fortune their humble dwelling never knew,
And Science there ne’er shed her piercing ray.

Yet, e’en their welcome holiday they keep,

A smile of pleasure sparkles in their eyes;
Drest in their Sunday’s suits, and drinking deep,
They draw the smile and pity of the wise.

Their wants, their woes, without disguise made known,

The void, in conversation oft supply:
And many saving maxims are laid down,
That teach the poor, lank hunger to defy.

For who, to penury and grief a prey,

At Christmas-tide no signs of pleasure shows?
Flies from the scenes of happiness away,
Nor casts one wistful glance where plenty flows?

At that glad time the face in smiles is drest,

And ev’ry honest heart around is gay;
E’en the poor lab’ror strives to have a feast,
E’en the sad widow wipes her tears away.

For thee who, mindful of this festal day,

 Dost try in rhyme its pleasures to relate,
If chance, when Reason shall regain her sway,
Some boon companion should enquire thy fate,

Haply some near-observing friend may say,

“When all was o’er, we saw him scour along,
Splashing through every puddle in his way,
In hopes to gain his home e’er morning sprung.

“There in yon stream, that slowly wanders down

The silent vale, remote from care and strife,
His listless length at midnight hour was thrown,
And ’scap’d, by chance, with scarce a sign of life.

“Along yon trackless heath, his dreary way,

Mutt’ring ten thousand curses, he explor’d:
Now starting, wild with terror and dismay,
Now dreading yet th’ unfathomable ford.

“That morn we missed him ope his cottage door,

Within the barn, and on the bowling green;
Another fill’d his chair at dinner hour:
Nor at the sports, nor ale-house was he seen.

“At night, by friends and neighbours homeward borne,

We saw him pillow’d on the couch of rest,
Approach and hear his faithful Mary mourn,
And mark the throbbings of the anxious breast.”
T S .
Here rests his head, now free from care or mirth,
A man for drinking and misfortunes known;
Cold poverty presided at his birth,
And ever since has mark’d him for her own.

Large were the draughts he quaff’d, by passion driv’n,

And reason’s power was lost amid the flow;
He gave his sorrow to the winds of heaven,
 And snatch’d a short oblivion to his woe.

No further seek his frailties to disclose,

Or tell each little failing of his life,
Here they, forgot in silence, should repose—
The bosom of his confidant and wife.

From The Pleasures of Nature; or, the Charms of Rural Life. With other
Poems. By David Carey. London: Vernon and Hood. 1803.
(D. Carey also published “Reign of Fancy, with Lyrical Tales,” 1804.
“Craig Phadric; Visions of Sensibility, with Legendary Tales,” Printed at
Inverness for the Author, 8vo., 1811. Carey was the son of a manufacturer
in Arbroath, Forfarshire, where he was born in 1782. He edited The
Inverness Journal for five years, and died at Arbroath, October 4th, 1824.)
——:o:——
E S ,
On returning at Day-break, through an Alley
in London, from a Ball at Lady Dash’s.
The Watchman drawls the hour of dawning day,
The breakfast booth is set with smoking tea,
The dancers homeward wind their weary way,
And leave the streets to morning and to me.

Now brighter beams upon the pavement dart,

Though yet a gen’ral silence holds the air,
Save where some gard’ner drives his early cart,
Or drowsy milkmen clank along the square:

Save that, disguised with liquor and with paint,

The fragile fair complains of some mishap,
From rough patroles, who, stern and ungallant,
Molest her chill and solitary nap.

Beneath these humble roofs, these broken tiles,

 Blown from their lay’rs when April winds were high,
On beds uncurtain’d, and in crowded files,
This narrow alley’s lab’ring tenants lie.

The pealing knocker at the pompous porch,

The fretful gabble of the elbow’d guest,
The clattering carriage, or the flaring torch,
Has never robb’d them of their lowly rest.

For them no dame shall plan the brilliant ball,

Nor Mr. Speaker ply his evening care:
No lacqueys bow before them through the hall,
Nor scream their titles up the crowded stair.

Oft does the dray their sturdy strength invite,

Their harden’d hands oft haul the stubborn rope,—
How jocund do they shut their shops at night!
How smirk their chins beneath the Sunday soap!

Let not nice Nugent mock their useful toil,

Their ill cut raiment, or their homely food,
Nor the Black Dandy[9] hear with scornful smile,
The early hours of that unpolish’d brood.

The pomp of liv’ries and the whirl of wheels,

And all that Hoby,[10] all that Dyde[11] e’er gave,
Are random toys that Fortune blindly deals,—
Grave to the fool, but foolish to the grave.

Nor you, ye fair, contemn their lowly doom,

If fops for them no rapt’rous plaudits raise;
While in the buzz of many a scented room,
Your voice, your dancing swell the note of praise.

Can animating reel, or melting waltz,

Teach you to thread the giddier maze of life?
Can D’Egville’s skill redeem one step when false?
Or Cramer lull the jars of man and wife?
Perhaps in yon dark garret may repose
Eyes, of fair Castlereagh’s celestial fire;
Hands that, like Congreve’s, had consumed our foes,
Or swept, like Southey’s, o’er the laureat lyre;

But Fashion to their eyes her fruitful store

Of gay accomplishment did ne’er unroll:
Chill penury repressed each livelier pow’r,
And nipp’d the tender flow’rets of the soul.

Full many a Luttrell’s mental ray serene

The wide uncultured bogs of Erin bear:
Full many a Hope is born to blush unseen,
Or waste her sweetness at a village fair.

Some nameless Ward, whose master-wit repress’d

The alehouse patriot’s dull disloyal arts,
Some bright untoasted Hertford here may rest—
Some Jersey, guiltless of our broken hearts.

The Morning Post’s applause to bear away,

To tease the envious mob of aping cits,
To scatter plenty at a fête ornée,
To learn of Statesmen, and to live with wits,

Their lot forbade: a power supremely wise

Their fate, their fashion, and their faults confin’d:
Forbade, to deal destruction with their eyes,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind:

The modest throes of struggling truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
To vie with demireps in paint and pride,
And swell the calendar of evil fame.

Far from St. James’s, far from all the Squares,

Their vulgar footsteps never learn’d to stray;
About St. Martin’s Lane, or Lambeth Stairs,
 They keep the noisy tenor of their way.

Yet, that ev’n these may taste their due delights,

Some Evening Tea-garden with holly fence,
From caxon’d quizzes, and from flounce-cloak’d frights,
Obtains the tribute of their eighteen pence.

Their cakes, their ale, brought by a tidy maid,

The place of venison and champagne supply:
And cocks and hens are clipp’d from yew-tree shade,
That meet their taste for rural scenery.

For who, in Nature’s favourite month of June,

Seeks not the velvet of some verdant sod?
Feels the warm ray of Sunday afternoon,
Nor casts one restless, roving look abroad?

Tax’d carts unnumber’d roll through Bethnal Green,

By Hatchett’s door a knot of coaches wait:
On Greenwich Hill are some smart ankles seen,
Even at the Horns some fearless husbands bait.

For thee, who, mindful of a friendless race,

Dost in these rhymes their little lives define,
If chance, when years have sped their silent pace,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire of thine,

Haply, some gentle dowager may say,—

“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
“Kicking from painted floors the chalk away,
“While sleepy chaperons would sit and yawn.

“There, where the Palace fronts St. James’s Street,

“And rears its old fantastic tow’rs so high,
“The rattling carriages he loved to meet,
“And gossip with the folk that babbled by.

“From rout to rout, now laughing at the tricks

 “Of wayward jilts and dandies he would rove:
“Now deeply wrapt in chit chat politics,
“Or slyly jesting on some corner-love.

“One morn I miss’d him in th’ accustom’d walks

“Along the Park, and near his fav’rite trees;
At night he sate not in my opera box,
“Nor came to sup at Lady ——’s.

Next morn I heard that, just two days before,

With a loved bride from busy Town he went:
Sit down with patience a few moments more,
And read a letter that he lately sent:
T L .
Here lives, retired from all the haunts of men,
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
The muses frown’d not on his early pen,
But Disappointment mark’d him for her own.

His heart was warm, and his ambition high,

But Heav’n decreed a safer, stiller life:
He gave to pomp and pow’r a parting sigh:
He gain’d from Heav’n a fond and faithful wife.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Nor wake his wishes for a world forgot:
Here, in his rustic home he finds repose,
And love and letters bless his lonely cot.

From Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by several of

our most celebrated Poets. London. John Miller, 25, Bow Street. 1814.
——:o:——
T L L .
 (Public Lotteries were abolished by Act of Parliament in 1826, and the
last was drawn on October 18, 1826.)
The Chancellor has passed the stern decree,
The daily press rings out the doleful knell,
Warning each old adventurer, that he
Must now of Lotteries take a last farewell!

Dismay and wonder now pervade Cornhill—

The printers, too, are in a dismal rout,
Swearing they ne’er shall print another bill,
When those for whom they puffed are thus puffed out.

O Fred’rick Robinson, thou man of death!

Our scanty pittance why should you begrudge it?
Why—oh! why thus in dungeon stop our breath,
And shut us cruelly from out thy budget?

What was it seem’d offensive in thine eyes,

And gave thine act a plausible pretence?
Say—didst thou think the selling a large prize
Was in itself a capital offence?

Whatever be the cause, the effect is sad;

Since thou must close his well-known lucky wicket,
Bish, our Leviathan, is gone half mad,
And looks as dismal as a blank-drawn ticket.

Carrol—alas! his carols, turned to sighs,

Seem to his cheerful name to give the lie;
Hazard, with fear of death before his eyes
Declares he’ll stand the “hazard of the die.”

Swift, of the Poultry, too, is ill at ease,

His grief breaks forth in this pathetic swell—
I go to pine on wretched bread and cheese,
For, ah! to poultry I must bid farewell!
 Martin complains his rapid flight is checked,
And doth the ruin of his house deplore,
Wond’ring that martin’s nests don’t claim respect,
As they were wont to do in times of yore.

Richardson says the world will teem with crimes,

And woe and misery pervade the state;
For what can prosper in those hapless times,
When Good-luck is proscribed, and out of date?

The web of death encircles J. D. Webb,

The common ruin on him too hath landed;
Him, too, must reach this melancholy ebb,
And all the fortunes of the Strand be stranded.

Pidding, who did his corner much enjoy,

Says, while he contemplates the prospect dim,
“How oft I’ve hung out my gay blue-coat boy—
Now I must hang myself instead of him!”

Happily, next year, some friend shall say and weep,

As up Cornhill he takes his lonely way—
“Where are the harvests which I used to reap,
Beneath the sickle of each drawing day?

“Ah! where is Sivewright? where is Eyton now?

Where are the placards, which so lately told
The clustering congregation when and hew
The thirty thousands were all shared and sold?

“Where dwelt activity there reigneth gloom:

My well-known friends have lost their public rank:
The Lottery has pass’d into the tomb,
And left tse world an universal blank.”
From The Literary Gazette.

——:o:——
 A E ,
Written in the King’s Bench Prison.
The turnkey rings the bell for shutting out,
The visitor walks slowly to the gate;
The debtor chum-ward hastes in idle rout,
And leaves the Bench to darkness, me, and fate.

Now fades the high-spiked wall upon the sight,

And all the space a silent air assumes!
Save where some drunkard from the Brace[12] takes flight,
And drowsy converse lulls the distant rooms.

Save that from yonder Strong Room,[13] close confined,

Some noisy wight does to the night complain,
Of Mister Jones, the marshal, who, unkind
Has, by a week’s confinement, check’d his reign.

Within those strong-built walls, down that parade,

Where lie the stones all paved in order fair,
Each in his narrow room by bailiffs laid,
The new-made pris’ners o’er their caption swear.

The gentle morning bustle of their trade,

The ’prentice, from the garret overhead,
The dapper shopman, or the busy maid,
Will never here arouse them from their bed.

For them no polish’d Rumfords here shall burn,

Nor wife uxorious ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their dad’s return,
Or climb his knees, the sugar-plums to share.

Oft did the creditor to their promise yield,

As often they that solemn promise broke;
How jocund did they drive the duns afield!
’Till nick’d at last within the bailiff’s yoke!
Let not ambition mock their heedless fate,
And idly cry, their state might have been better;
Nor grandeur hear with scorn while I relate
The short insolvent annals of the debtor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,

All wealth procures, its being to entrench,
Await alike the writ’s appointed hour:
The paths of spendthrifts lead but to the Bench.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

That they are here, and not at large like you,
That they have bills at tailor’s, and wine vault
Bills that, alas! have long been overdue.

Can story gay, or animated tale,

Back from this mansion bid us freely run?
Can honour’s voice o’er creditors prevail,
Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Dun?

Perhaps in this confined retreat is shut

Some heart, to make a splash once all on fire:
Skill, that might Hobhouse to the rout have put,
Or loyally play’d Doctor Southey’s lyre.

But prudence to their eyes her careful page,

Rich in pounds, shillings, pence, did ne’er unroll.
Stern creditors repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of their soul.

Full many a blood, in fashion an adept,

The dark, lone rooms of spunging-houses bear
Full many a fair is born to bloom unkept,
And waste her sweetness, none know how or where.

Some cockney Petersham, that with whisker’d cheek

Once moved in Bond Street, Rotten Row, Pall Mall,
Some humble Mrs. Clarke[14] for rest may seek,
 Some Burdett, guiltless quite of speaking well.

The applauses of admiring mobs to gain

To be to threats of ruin, prison, lost;
To see they have not spent their cash in vain,
And read their triumph in the Morning Post.

That lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone

Their growing follies, but themselves confined;
The bailiff grimly seized them for his own,
And turnkeys closed the gates on them behind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
The King’s Bench terribly pulls down our pride
For high or lowly born, ’tis all the same.

Far from the city’s mad ignoble strife

They still retain an eager wish to stray;
They hate this cool sequester’d mode of life,
And wish at liberty to work their way.

And on those walls that still from duns protect

Those fire-proof walls, so strongly built and high,
With uncouth rhymes and mis-spelt verses deck’d,
They ask the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their names, their years, writ by th’ unletter’d muse

The place of fame and brass plate fill up well;
And many a lawyer’s too the stranger views
With pious wishes he may go to hell.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

His pleasing anxious liberty resign’d,
To Banco Regis bent his dreary way,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind.

On some one out, the prisoner still relies,

 Some one to yield him comfort, he requires;
E’en from the Bench the voice of nature cries,
E’en though imprison’d, glow our wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the debtor’s doom,

Dost in these lines their hapless state relate;
If chance by writ or capias hither come,
Some kindred spirit may inquire thy fate.

Haply, some hoary bailiff here may say,

“Oft have we watch’d him at the peep of dawn,
But, damn him, still he slipped from us away,
And when we thought we had him, he was gone.

“Where Drury Lane erects its well-known head,

And Covent Garden lifts its domes on high,
Morning and noon and night we found him fled,
Most snugly poring on us passing by.

“On Sundays, ever smiling as in scorn,

Passing our houses, he would boldly rove;
We gave his case up as of one forlorn,
And for his person pined in hopeless love.

“One morn we track’d him near th’ accustom’d spot

Along the Strand, and by his favourite she—
Another came; yet still we caught him not,
But on the third, we nabb’d a youth,—’twas he.

“The next, with warrant due, we brought our man,

Snug to the Bench, here all the way from town,
Approach and read the warrant (if you can),
You may a copy get for half-a-crown.”
T W .
Here rests his head, in “seventeen” and one,
A youth to fortune and to fame well-known.
But tradesmen trusted and began to dun,
 And Mister Sheriff marked him for his own.

Great were his spendings, he naught put on shelf,—

To send a recompense law did not fail:
He gave his cred’tors, all he had—himself
He gain’d from them (all he abhorred) a gaol!

No further seek his doings to disclose,

Or draw his follies from this dull abode,
(Here he’ll at all events three months repose),
Th’ Insolvent Act may open then a road.

This Parody was published anonymously in a little work, entitled,

“Prison Thoughts,” by a Collegian. London, John Lowndes, 1821. It was
afterwards reprinted in “Doings in London, or Day and Night Scenes in the
Metropolis,” by George Smeeton, which was published about 1828. In this
it is said that the above Parody of Gray’s Elegy was written by a favourite
dramatist, but it does not give his name.
——:o:——
Another parody, with a somewhat similar title, was published, in quarto,
in 1790, of which the following is an exact reprint, omitting an
advertisement, a list of subscribers, a dedication to Sir Martin Stapylton
Bart, and some rather tedious footnotes:—
AN ELEGY.
In Imitation of Gray.
Written in
T K ’ B P .
B M .
Printed for the Author; and sold by R. Lea, Greek Street,
M .

The surly crier rings his nightly knell,

The willing guest departs his weary way,
And hears with joy the lonely Prison-bell,
Nor wishes with his wretched friend to stay.

Now rest the noisy racket-playing cry,

And rattling balls against the dreary wall;
To them succeed the ruin-hurling die,
And bawling Potmen’s never ceasing call.

Within these narrow cells, in durance vile,

Where lurid Vengeance holds its baleful reign,
Where awful Ruin hovers ’round the pile,
Th’ inglorious captives ev’ry grief sustain.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn

Gives not its wonted joy unto their shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn
No more entices from their lowly bed.

Here dwells the rustic, who with thoughtless zeal

The petty tyrant of his fields defied,
Doom’d, by some lordly Villain’s frown, to feel
The tedious malice of hard hearted Pride.

Here too, in long captivity remain

The hardy warrior, and the nobly brave,
Who dar’d their Country’s battles to sustain
Their honor’d Country’s L to save

But oh! despise not their ignoble toil,

Their loss of Liberty and Life obscure,
Nor proudly hear with a disdainful smile
The dull complaint of the imprison’d poor.

On those who boast of Heraldry and Pow’r

Or all that Pomp and sordid wealth e’er gave,
The angry storms of Fortune soon may lour
A wretched Prison may precede the grave.
Not ev’n can V ’ sacred name defend;
For round the good, and near the bad await,
The one t’afflict, the other to amend,
The never-failing ministers of Fate.

Perhaps within this sad abode may pine,

A heart once pregnant with Celestial fire,
Souls, that to warlike deeds do still incline,
And hands, that still might wake the living lyre:

But Liberty to them, by cruel fate,

Is now denied the panting heart to warm;
Chill Penury confines their low estate,
And Life’s to them devoid of ev’ry charm.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,

Within these hated walls do they remain;
With patience drink the bitter dregs of Life,
And the dire load of misery sustain.

Their hopes, their wishes, and the chance of fate,

The place of certainty, or truth supply;
They still would triumph o’er the proud one’s hate,
Nor yet despairing wildly wish to die.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

A miserable being e’er resign’d,
Left the dull precincts of the doleful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

Still on some breast does ev’ry soul rely,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires,
For distant friends we breathe th’impassion’d sigh,
To tears of S each wretch aspires.

But here, entomb’d within this living grave,

Too many sink beneath their wretched fate,
No more have Friends the pleasing pow’r to save,
 And long-delay’d assistance comes too late.

While some, alas! neglected by each friend,

The world despising, by the world forgot,
With jovial riot their dull hours defend,
And drown with sparkling wine their hapless lot.

The sumptuous feast, and ev’ry sensual joy,

With noisy mirth each gloomy night infest;
Still must R ’ piercing dart annoy,
And such vile pleasures but disturb their rest.

And yet some tutors with a scanty fare

Advise a P , venial faults to mend:
But Ah! they little know the anxious care,
And less the danger which such schools attend.

Can prudent maxims to a conscious mind

Supply the place of H ’ gentler sway?
Or can the dear-bought knowledge of mankind
The loss of V ’ gen’rous flame repay?

Many, by fond credulity betray’d,

Their happiness on other’s honor stake;
The faithless friends the angry laws evade,
And honest friendship suffers for the rake.

The sober citizen, whose hard-earn’d wealth,

Is lost by sad vicissitude of trade,
With heartfelt sorrow undermines his health
While Prudent Friends his losses still upbraid.

Then by a cruel false deceiver led,

Wearied with mis’ry, frantic with despair,
The blooming Partner of his marriage bed,
Adds Jealous anguish to his wretched care.

For thee, who mindful of thy own mischance,

 Dost in these lines an artless tale relate;
Some kindred spirit, or some friend perchance,
In future times may mourn thy hapless fate.

And when with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow thro’ the church-way path thy corpse be borne,
May these few lines compose the parting lay,
Grav’d on a stone beneath an aged thorn.
T E .
Here rest his cares within the friendly earth,
AY to fortune and to fame unknown;
Some Dæmon frown’d upon his humble birth,
And cheerless mis’ry marked him for her own.

When youthful, virtues glow’d within his breast,

Allur’d by Passion, by Example led,
With Folly’s children he too warmly prest,
And idle joys their baleful influence shed.

But soon succeed these pleasures of the town,

Th’ unfeeling persecution of the proud,
With black misfortune’s sad terrific frown,
And hard neglect of the unthinking crowd.

Deserted by his friends, by all mankind,

With silent anguish long he mourn’d his fate,
With joyful hope his willing breast resign’d
In expectation of an happier state.

Around his grave the cypress wreath entwine,

The Yew Tree’s shade shall add its solemn gloom;
The tender fair to pity will incline,
And drop a tear upon his early Tomb.

——:o:——