ALFRED TENNYSON (continued). Since the year 1845 Alfred Tennyson has been in the receipt of a civil list pension of £200 a year, so that, in round figures, he has received about £8.000 of the public money, besides drawing the annual salary of £100 since his appointment as Poet Laureate, November, 1850. The sale of his works has also, of course, been greatly increased, owing to his official title, and the present fortunate holder of the laurels enjoys a fortune much in excess of that of any of his predecessors in office. From the days of Ben Jonson downwards Poets Laureate have been paid to sing the praises of the Royal Family; of these Laureates, Jonson, Dryden, Southey, and Wordsworth were true poets, but the others in the line of succession were mere rhymesters, whose very names are now all but forgotten. Eusden, Cibber, and Pye were unremitting in their production of New Year, and Birth-day Odes, Southey did little in this way, and Wordsworth would not stoop to compose any official poems whatever, although he wore the laurels for seven years. It was reserved for Alfred Tennyson to revive the custom, and he has composed numerous adulatory poems on events in the domestic history of our Royal Family. The smallest praise that can be bestowed on Tennyson's official poems is that they are immeasurably superior to any produced by former Laureates; and although the events recorded have but a passing interest, the poems will probably long retain their popularity. The death of the princess Charlotte in 1817 was, no doubt, considered at the time as a greater public loss than was the death of Prince Albert in 1861; yet who now reads Southey's poem in her praise? Whereas the beauty of Tennyson's Dedication of the Idyls of the King will cause it to be remembered long after people have forgotten the Prince to whom it was inscribed. The Dedication commences thus : "THESE to his Memory-since he held them dear, NOTE.-Poets Laureate, with the dates of their appointment :-Benjamin Jonson, 1615-16 : Sir William Davenant, 1638; John Dryden, 1670; Thomas haiwell, 1688; Nahum Tate, 1692; Nicholas Rowe. 1715; Lawrence Eusden, 1718; Colley Cibber, 1730; William Whitehead, 1757; Thomas Warton, 1785; Henry James Pye, 1799; Robort Southey, 1813; William Wordsworth, 1843; and And, indeed, He seems to me. Scarce other than my own ideal knight.” Continuing in this strain for another fifty lines, the Poet credits the Prince with every conceivable virtue, after which, as a contrast, it is almost a relief to turn to some parody, less ideal, and less heroic, THESE to his memory-since he held them dear, Some picture of himself- I dedicate, I dedicate. I consecrate with smiles- Indeed, He seemed to me To dress in well-cut tweeds, in doe-kin suits, To smoke good brands; to quaff rare vintages; Who spoke few wise things; did some foolish ones; He who throughout his realms to their last isle We have lost him; he is gone; We know him now; ay, ay, perhaps too well, The Coming K-- was published about ten years ago as one of Beeton's Christmas Annuals, and created a sensation at the time, as it dealt with some social scandals then fresh in the short period, it was suddenly withdrawn in a mysterious manner from circulation, and is now rather scarce. Following the Dedication, just quoted, are parodies of the Idyls of the King, with the following titles:-The Coming of Guelpho; Heraint and Shenid; Vilien; Loosealot and Delaine; The Glass of Ale; Silleas and Gettarre; The Last Carnival; and Goanveer. In each of these parts there are parodies well worthy of preservation, but space will only permit of the insertion of the following extracts, one from Vilien, the other from Goanveer. In Vilien, the then prevalent crazes for Cabinet Spiritualism, Table Rapping, and séances are amusingly satirised; Vilien seeks out Herlin the Wizard, and thus begs him to reveal the one great secret of his art : "I ever feared you were not wholly mine, The charm with which you make your table rap. O yield my boon, And grant my re-iterated wish, And Vilien, like the tenderest hearted maid And they shall answer for me. List the song : In love, 'tis as in trade; if trade were ours, Credit and cash could ne'er be equal powersGive trust to all or don't give trust at all. It is the little rift within the lute That cracks the sound and makes the music mute, It is the little moth within the suit, It is the little leaven makes the lump, O, Herlin, do you understand my rhyme? And Villien, naught abashed, replied again : 66 'Lo, now, how silly you must be, you know, My simple stanzas not to understand; 'Tis thus our truest poets write their rhymes; I'll give you one verse more. The last legend, that of Goanveer, tells how"FLEET Goanveer had lost the race, and stood There in the stable near to Epsom Downs." This mare the Coming K-— had backed heavily, but his trusted friend, Sir Loosealot, obtaining access to her stable the night before the race, had drugged her, so that on the day she hobbled sickly to the winning-post. By this evil trick Sir Loosealot wins much, whilst the Coming K is a heavy loser. Guelpho visits the mare in her stable, and thus addresses her, in a parody of the celebrated passage in Guinevere, where Arthur parts from his faithless Queen : "And all went well till on the turf I went, I am contemned amongst my chiefest knights? And, thinking he had done, the mare did neigh, Yet, think not that I come to urge thy faults; I did not come to curse thee, Goanveer: The wrath which first I felt when thou brok'st down I came to take my last fond leave of thee, And points the like of which no mare yet had Till thou was't bred! O fetlocks, neater far Than many a woman's ankles! Ö grand hocks That faltered feebly on that fatal day!" Yet, Goanveer, I bid thee now good-bye, Welcome him, blunder of escort and suite, Take him, O attic, and rock him to sleep! Ismail Pasha ! Seeking quarters for change of air, Yet thorough John Bulls in our welcome of thee, Shortly after the death of the late John Brown, when it was announced that the Queen had had a statue of him erected in the grounds at Balmoral, it was also rumoured that Tennyson was writing a poem in his honour. A jocular author suggested that it might run as follows: Trash about bells and the merry March hare Have I gone mad, or taken a drappie? But more of us rum-uns or Danes you see Some of us Saxons, and all with a B In our bonnets, or something that's stronger than tea; To the poet who sang like a swan up a tree, Alexandra ! "The promise of May" was a little bit late, And he had my cochins, too, if you please, You must pay for what flows from the poet's pate Will be worth to an obolus what it will bring! The Referee, September, 1883. It is generally admitted that Tennyson's more recent official poetry has added little to his fame, whilst it has often been mercilessly ridiculed, and, of late, his adulatory poems, and protestations of loyalty, have frequently beer. ascribed to interested motives. As soon as it was definitely announced that he was to be ennobled, a genealogy was compiled tracing his descent from the kings who ruled in Britain long before the Conquest. This grand claim (which was quoted at page 28) has since been rather spoilt by the plain statement that Alfred Tennyson's grandfather was a country attorney, practising in a small, quiet way in Market Rasen, North Lincolnshire, who, having made money in his business, retired, and bought some land in the neighbourhood. But for the title just conferred upon him, Tennyson's birth and lineage would have been matters of perfect indifference to his readers. As for raising Tennyson to the peerage, no writer seems seriously to have defended an act which most people look upon as a mistake. Not one parody in its favour has been written, but many against it. You must wake and call me early, call me early, Vicky dear, For to-morrow will be the silliest day we've seen for many a year; For I am a rhyming prig, Vicky, that shoddy and sham reveres, So I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. There's many a crazy lyre, they say, but none so effete as mine; It cannot ring out an ode to Brown, that gallant gilly of thine, For there's none so inane as poor old Alf in his sad, declining years; And I'm to be one of the Peets, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. I sleep so sound all night, Vicky, that I shall never wake; So come in the early morn, Vicky, and give me a slap and a shake; For I must gather my scissors and paste and scraps of the bygone years, And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the l'eers. As I came up the Row, Vicky, whom think you I should see? Lord Queensberry against a lamp, and singing Tweedle-dedee : He thought of that vile play, Vicky, I wrote in bygone years; But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. He thought I was a fool, Vicky, for I looked dazed and white; He took me for a fool, Vicky-by jingo, he was right. They call me Atheist-hater; but I care not for their jeers, For I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. They say men write, and all for love; but this can never be : They say that great men write and starve; but what is that to me? For gold I sell my laughter, for gold I sell my tears, And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of I wrote my "In Memoriam" when I was young and green; I wrote my "Promise of the May" when I was pumped out clean; And I've been the Court's hired lackey for many cringing years; And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. The spider in my mouldy brain has woven its web for hours On the dull flats of Lincoln fens and withered hot-house flowers; I feel the shortening of my wits and the lengthening of my ears, So I'm to be one of the peets, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. The night winds come and go, Vicky, upon the meadow grass; There are guineas for the rhymster and thistles for the ass : I have been your rhyming flunkey for over thirty years; Now I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. There will be poets after me, not fresh and green and still, Who care less for a Prince's nod than for the People's will, Not rhyming royal nuptials and singing royal biers; the Peers. You must wake and call me early, call me early, Vicky dear; To-morrow will be the silliest day we've seen for many a year; For I'm a lackey and prig, Vicky, that sham and shoddy reveres, And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. From The Secular Review, December 29, 1883. Of Tennyson's Patriotic Poems The Charge of the Light Brigade has always been the most popular, and has, consequently, been the most frequently parodied. An excellent parody, taken from Puck on Pegasus, was given on page 31; the following are the most interesting examples which remain to be quoted: THE INSTITUTION OF MECHANICAL ENGINEERS, On Thursday, August 3, 1865, an excursion was made by the Members of the Institution of Mechanical Engineers of England, to the Dublin Corporation Waterworks at the Stillorgan and Roundwood Reservoirs. The members proceeded from Bray through the Glen of the Downs, along a portion of the line of pipes, and at the Roundwood Reservoir they were hardsomely entertained by Sir John Gray, M.P., the Chairman of the Waterworks Committee, and The following parody appeared in a Dublin newspaper a few days later. Dr. Waller, who is mentioned in it, was then the Chairman of the Connoree Copper and Sulphur Mines, in the Vale of Avoca, which were also visited by the party of Engineers:- THE TWO HUNDRED. (After Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade.") Went some two hundred. Went the two hundred. "Forward!' said Sir John Gray, 'Waller has blundered.' But they were wrong, to doubt- On from the station there, Through Wicklow's mountain air Drove the two hundred. "Arrived at the Vartry stream, Admired and wondered. Explained what was strange or queer: All the works, far and near, He showed the two hundred. "Then through the Vartry pipes As niggers bend to stripes, Right through these monster pipes. Like string through a bodkin, Sir John led a lot of us, Making small shot of us; The first man he caught of us Was our London Times-Godkin. "Done with the Vartry Works, Soup, fish, meat, fowl, and ham, All the guests wondered. "Champagne to the right of them, Champagne to the left of them, Champagne around them, Popping and spurting. Toasts then came from the chair, "Good wine of every sort, Speeches with joke and sport; Then they went back again, But not the two hundred. Some of them went astray O'er hills and far away, But, getting home next day, Made up the two hundred. "W. S." This poem is signed with the initials W. S., which probably stand for the name of the late Mr. William Smith, a gentleman well-known in Dublin literary circles, as the author of many clever parodies which appeared over the nom de plume of" Billy Scribble." Whether these humorous poems have ever been published in a collected form, I cannot say, and I should be glad to receive any information about them. "THE HALF Hundred (OF COALS). A good way after A. Tennyson's "Six Hundred." Bought by the "Hundred!" With the Half-hundred !' I with the shame should die! With the Half-hundred !'" A cat on the right of him! What if he blunder'd? All the "Half-hundred!" As from the second floor |