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Break, break, break,

In thy pantry, Mary G―!

But that costly vase and that teacup rare

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He led a polka-round his skull
He waved the rhythm of the charm,
And stamped, and shook his dress-coat skirts,
With giant wavings of his arm;

And then-he went and changed his shirt!
And said the house was very i

And so he drove a thriving trade,
With symphonies in classic way;
With Drummers and with Zolaves' call
Himself upon himself did play.
Each season ending with a ball

Of masques, his fortune thas he made.

The In Memoriam verses are scarcely so good, I will, therefore, only quote the first and the last:

RICHMOND, 1855.

I HOLD it truth, when I recall

Last London's season's joyous spell, 'Tis better to have danced not well. Than never to have danced at all.

In 1856 a little sixpenny pamphlet was published by J. Booth, of Regent Street, entitled Anti-Maud, by a Poet of the People. Tennyson had been accused of fanning the warlike spirit then rampant in the land, and his Maud contained -in exquisite poetry-many of the stock arguments in favour of war and glory. The "Poet of the People," in his Anti-Maud, adopted the other, and less popular view. Read in the light of subsequent events this scarce little pamphlet seems more correct in its deductions, than the Laureate's war cry in Maud. The author asserts that Anti-Maud is not merely a jeu d'esprit, but something of a more earnest character, and he disclaims any intention of depreciating the Laureate's poetry. I can quote a few only of the best of the fifty odd stanzas:

ANTI-MAUD.

I hate the murky pool at the back of the stable yard, For dear though it be to the ducks and geese, it has an unpleasant smell;

If you gaze therein at your own sweet face, the reflection is broken and marred,

And echo, there, if you ask how she is, replies, "I feel very very unwell."

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was France, next it was Russia, and latterly some of his writings have been well calculated to revive our long forgotten animosity to Spain. In so doing Tennyson has narrowed the circle of his admirers, for war is far from being the popular game it once was; and the poet, who would be loved of all, should avoid controversial topics. The Laureate's patriotic muse has certainly sung a few noble songs, but many which have been deservedly ridiculed; in his official capacity he has written some of the most exquisite lines in which adulation of Royalty has ever been expressed; for whilst we know that his laurelled predecessors credited the Stuarts and the Georges with precisely the same virtues which he has ascribed to members of the present Royal Family, their official poems were laughed at at the time, and are now forgotten; whilst his have been greatly admired, especially in high quarters, and the coronet which is to reward his poetical loyalty confers on him, and the latest of his descendants, a perpetual title to rule over the people of Great Britain.

All honour to the Poet, as Poet, as a titled Legislator the choice rather reminds one of the saying of Beaumarchais' hero;-" It fallait un calculateur, ce fut un danseur qui l'obtint," a saying which I may perhaps be allowed to parody thus :-" Il fallait un Legislateur, ce fut un chanteur qui l'obtint."

THE LAST PEER.

"Is not a poet better than a lord?" Robert Buchanan.

Blood on their heads, and blood at their doors; the blood of our own brave men,

The blood of the wretched serfs who fight for their Faith and their Czar.

46

I have quoted so much of this parody because it was one of the first to draw attention to the Laureate's love for the pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war, a bellicose spirit which breathes quite as fiercely in his later writings, as in his early songs; in all cases, indeed, where he has attempted any Patriotic poem, the main idea seems to be a bloodthirsty hatred of some

Alfred the Loved, the Laureate of the Court,
The poet of the people, he who sang
Of that great Order of the Table Round,
Had been a sailing; first into the North,
Then Southward, then toward the middle sea;
And with him went the Premier, journeying
Some said for health, and some, to hatch new schemes
With Kings and statesmen. Howsoe'r they came
To Denmark's Court, where princes gathered round
To hear our Alfred read his songs aloud.

And as they voyaged homeward to the shores
Of England, where the Isle our poet loved
Lay sparkling like a gem upon the sea,

"We are but Commoners, both you and I,”
Said Gladstone; "no adornment to our names,
No sounding titles; simply Mister This
And Mister That. But yet, the other day,
You read your verse to Emperors and Kings;
Princesses smiled upon you. You were great
As they, except in title. It were well
The distance lessened somewhat; Poet, you,
The prince of all the poets of our time,
Be something more, be noble, be a lord."

Then Alfred sate him down, his good grey hairs
Blown o'er his shoulders by the summer wind,
His eyes all dreamy; and he hummed a song,
Like, and yet unlike, that which Enid sang.*

"Turn, Gladstone, turn thy followers into lords,
Turn those who wealth has gathered into hoards;
Turn those, and whom thou wilt, but turn not me,
Leave, Gladstone, leave the name I always bore,
One that, mayhap, may live for evermore;

'Tis mine alone, and mine shall always be.

Turn into lords the owners of broad lands,
Turn him who in the path of progress stands,
And he who doeth service to the State.

Leave the name that all the people know.
A prouder title than thou canst bestow,

Made by myself, and not by station, great.”
Yet, notwithstanding what he murmured then,
The thought dwelt in his heart; and many a day
Thereafter, as he sat at Haslemere,
Revolving and resolving, tili his mind

Could scarce distinguish his resolves from doubts,
He muttered, “Ah ! and I might be a lord !”
And so the thought grew on him, and brake down,
And overcame him; and the grand old name
Which the world knows, and reverences, and loves,
Seemed plain and bare and niggard, far too poor
For him who sang of Arthur and his knights,
And Camelot, and that strange, haunted mere.

And one who knew the name, and honour'd it,
Went to him, pleaded, then spake hotly thus :--
"Doubtest thou here so long? Art thou the one
Whose tongue grew bitter only at the sound
Of titles, and whose satire never leaped
Forth from its hiding-place but when some claim
Of place and privilege provoked thy wrath?
Wherever travels car bold English speech-
Across the broad Atlantic, 'mid the sands
Of scorching Africa, or in the bush
Of the young, strong, far-off Antipodes-
Thy name is greater, more familiar, more
In all men's mouths than that of any lord.

*The song in Enid, here alluded to, runs thus:

Turn, fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm and cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown and we sme, the lords of our own hands;
For man is man and master of his fate.
Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;

O fair, full name, o'er which I used to dream,
Not thinking; O imperial-spreading fame,
And glory never such as poet bore,

Until they came, a Kingdom's pride, with thee;
I cannot know thee if thou art a lord;
Be Alfred Tennyson until the last;
Not Bonchurch, nor another. Is there none
Can yet persuade thee, ere it be too late?"

But he, the poet, listened, and was dumb,
And yet resolved. Ah, he would be a lord,
And sink the name round which his glory grew.
And so there came a herald with a scroll,
One who makes ancestors and coats of arms,
And gives alike to poet or to peer
A pedigree as long as Piccadilly;
And he brought with him much emblazonry,
A quartered shield, with, on the dexter side,
The grand old gardener, Adam, and his wife,
A-smiling at the claims of long descent.

From The Echo, Dec. 7, 1883.

Nothing yet written about this unpopular title (which jars on the ears of the people), approaches the severity of the following caustic parody which appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette, 12th December, 1883:

BARON ALFRED VERE DE Vere.
BARON Alfred Vere de Vere,

Of me you win no new renown;
You thought to daze the country folk

And cockneys when you came to town.
See Wordsworth, Shelley, Cowper, Eurns,
Withdraw in scorn, and sit retired!

The last of some six hundred Earls
Is not a place to be desired.

Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,

We thought you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for ours, Too proud to think a title fame. We hail the genius-not the lord: We love the poet's truer charms. A simple singer with his dreams Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,

I see you march, I hear you say, "Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes!" Is all the burden of your lay. We held you first with at a peer,

And princely by your noble wordsThe Senior Wrangler of our bards Is now the Wooden Spoon of lords.

Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my bend; For fast five decades now have fiv

Since we all mourned young Arther dead Oh, your wet eyes, your low replies!

Our tears have mingled with your tears: To think that all such agony

Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,

Our England has had poets too :
They sang some grand old songs of yore,
But never reached such heights as you.
Will Shakespeare was a prince of bards,
Our Milton was a king to hear,
But had their manners that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere?

Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,

Robe, now your bays are sere and spent : The King of Snobs is at your door,

To trace your long (and deep) descent.
A man's a man for a' that,

And rich on forty pounds a year;
If rank be the true guinea-stamp
To win Parnassus-die a peer!

Trust me, Baron Vere de Vere,

When nobles eat their noblest words, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the airs of poet-lords. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Plain souls are more than coronets, And simple lives than Baronhood.

I know you, Baron Vere de Vere:
You pine among your halls and bays:
The jaded light of your vain eyes

Is wearied with the flood of praise.
In glowing fame, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You are so dead to simple things,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Alfred, Alfred Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no toilers in our streets, Nor any poor in all these lands? Oh! teach the weak to strive and hope, Or teach the great to help the low, Pray Heaven for a noble heart, And let the foolish title go.

For the curious in such matters I give the following extract from the St. James's Gazette relating to Mr. Tennyson's lineage:-That Mr. Tennyson comes of an ancient house is generally known; not every one perhaps is aware of the number of princes, soldiers, and statesmen, famous in British or European history, from whom he can claim descent. Without pretending to give an exhaustive list of his royal and noble ancestors, it may be interesting at the present moment to point out a few of the more renowned among them. The Laureate's descent from John Savage, Earl Rivers (from which stock came Johnson's friend), implies descent from the Lady Anne, eldest sister of Edward IV., and so from sixteen English kings-namely, the first three Edwards, Henry III., John, the first two

side, Ethelred the Unready, Edgar the Peaceable, Edmund I., Edward the Elder, Alfred, Ethelwulf, and Egbert, But Edward III. was the son of Isabella, daughter of Philip the Fair, King of France, who descended from Hugh Capet, and nine intervening French Kings, among whom were Robert II., Philip Augustus, Louis VIII., and St. Louis. The last is not the only saint who figures in this splendid pedigree. The mother of Edward II. was Eleanor, daughter of Ferdinand III., King of Castle and Leon, who was canonized by Clement X. Again, through the marriage of Edmund of Langley, Duke of York, with Isabel, daughter of Peter the Cruel, Mr. Tennyson descends from Sancho the Great and Alphonso the Wise. Other crowned ancestors of the poet are the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, and several Kings of Scotland, notably Malcolm III. and the "gracious Duncan," his father. In truth, the Shakespearean gallery is crowded with portraits of his progenitors-e.g., besides those already mentioned, John of Gaunt, Edmund Mortimer Earl of March, Richard Earl of Cambridge, Richard Plantagenet "the Yeoman," Edmund Beaufort Duke of Somerset, Lord Hastings (of the reigns of Edward IV. and Richard III.), and Lord Stanley. Mr. Tennyson is not only descended from the first Earl of Derby and that third earl with whose death, according to Camden," the glory of hospitality seemed to fall asleep," but from the "stout Stanley" who fronted the right of the Scots at Flodden, and whose name in Scott's poem was the last on the lips of the dying Marmion. "Lord Marmion," says Scott, "is entirely a fictitious personage: but he adds that the family of Marmion, Lords of Fontenay in Normandy, was highly distinguished; Robert de Marmion, a follower of Duke William, having obtained a grant of the castle and town of Tamworth. This Robert's descendant, Avice, married John, Lord Grey of Rotherfield, one of the original Knights of the Garter, whose great-granddaughter became (in 1401) the wife of John, Lord D'Eyncourt, another ancestor of Mr. Tennyson's; whose uncle, the Right Honourable Charles Tennyson, many years Liberal member for Lambeth, assumed the name of D'Eyncourt by royal licence."

Probably the learned compiler of this abstruse genealogy has no time to study the poets, or he might have read of one who claimed an even more ancient descent:

NOBLES and HERALDS, by your leave,

Here lies, what once was, MATTHEW PRIOR, The son of ADAM and of Eve,

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