Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

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 it contains:

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
unwell." 1

* * * * *

Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? Bloody war is
a holy thing.
The world is wicked, and base, and vile--shall I show you a
new kind of cure?
Smeared with blood and with parents' tears call for Moloch,
horrible king!
Let him trample to dust, with a brutal foot, whatever remains
of good or of pure! 11

For I trust, if the low-browed rogue with a ticket-of-leave
from the gaol,
Encountered the sergeant recruiting, in rainbow-like ribbons
arrayed,
He would clutch the Queen's shilling with glee, and draining the
dregs of his ale,
Declare that the sack of Odessa would be quite of a piece with
his trade. 12

Wanted a quarrel to set the world straight, and cure it by
letting of blood!
We are sick to the heart of ourselves I think, and so we are
sick of each other:
Rapine, and carnage, and rage would do us all manner of good;
Let Christian rise up against Christian, and brother take arms
against brother! 13

Under the shadow of peace something was done that was good,
We tore out a bloody page from the book of our ancient laws;
We struck off a bitter tax from the poor man's scanty food,
And justice bent down from her seat to give ear to the poor
man's cause. 21

Under the shadow of peace thickly began to arise
Many a home for the working poor, many a school and church,
Little it may be, but better than roasting our enemies eyes
With Captain Disney's patent, or sacking the town of Kertch. 22

Who clamours for war? Is it one who is ready to fight?
Is it one who will grasp the sword, and rush on the foe with
a shout?
Far from it; 'tis one of a musing mind, who merely intends to
write;
He sits at home by his own snug hearth, and hears the storm howl
without. 29

Who are the friends of the poor? The men who babble and prattle
About the Balance of Power, and the pomp and grandeur of war?
Thousands of miles away from the rush and the roar of battle,
Sipping their Seltzer and Hock, and smoking a mild cigar? 37

Who are the friends of the poor! The writers without a name,
Who scribble at so much a column, whatever the Editors please,
Working the many-mouthed bellows which blew up the war to a flame,
And pleading for rapine and blood, whilst they lounge in their
clubs at their ease! 38

Methinks we have done enough for that turbaned goat, the Turk,
Who spits when a Christian meets him, and would spit, if he dared,
in his face;
Methinks we have done enough, for 'tis but a thankless work
To rivet with care on a beautiful land, the clutch of a barbarous
race. 41

Whether they wag a saucy tongue, or stealthily work with the pen,
There is blood on the heads of those who are fanning the flames
of war;
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, where he has attempted any Patriotic poem, the main idea seems to be a bloodthirsty hatred of some other nation; at one time, and for some years, it 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._

* * * * *

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,
They leaned athwart the bulwarks and spake low.

"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.[1]

"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, till 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 our 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.

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, Burns,
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 without a peer,
And princely by your noble words words--
The Senior Wrangler of our bards
Is now the Wooden Spoon of lords.

Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,
You put strange memories in my head;
For just five decades now have flown
Since we all mourned young Arthur dead.
Oh, your wet eyes, your low replies!
Our tears have mingled with your tears:
To think that all such agony
Should end in making you a peer!

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 Henrys, William the Conqueror, Edmund Iron-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,
Can STUART or NASSAU claim higher?

The following beautiful lines, which occur in _The Princess_, have been the subject of many parodies:--

Home they brought her warrior dead;
She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him soft and low,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee--
Like summer tempest came her tears--
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

* * * * *

An excellent parody, by Shirley Brooks, appeared in _Punch_, December 30, 1865.

HOME THEY BROUGHT.

(_With abject apologies to Mr. Tennyson, Miss Dance and Miss Dolby_).

HOME they brought her lap-dog dead,
Just run over by a fly,
JEAMES to Buttons, winking, said,
"Won't there be a row, O my!"

Then they called the flyman low,
Said his baseness could be proved:
How she to the Beak should go--
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Said her maid (and risked her place),
"In the 'ouse it should have kept,
Flymen drives at such a pace"--
Still the lady's anger slept.

Rose her husband, best of dears,
Laid a bracelet on her knee.
Like playful child she boxed his ears--
"Sweet old pet!--let's have some tea."

And the following by Mr. Sawyer is also worthy of preservation:--

THE RECOGNITION.

Home they brought her sailor son,
Grown a man across the sea,
Tall and broad and black of beard,
And hoarse of voice as man may be.

Hand to shake and mouth to kiss.
Both he offered ere he spoke;
But she said--"What man is this
Comes to play a sorry joke?"

Then they praised him--call'd him "smart,"
"Tightest lad that ever stept;"
But her son she did not know,
And she neither smiled nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set a pigeon-pie in sight:
She saw him eat--"'Tis he! 'tis he!"
She knew him--by his appetite!

* * * * *

In January, 1882, Mr. Cook speaking at a public meeting in reference to the state of affairs in Ireland at that time, observed that he could not better represent Mr. Gladstone's position in this land question than by quoting a parody on that celebrated poem of Tennyson's, "Home they brought her warrior dead":--

Home they brought Montmorres dead,
_He_ nor sighed nor uttered cry.
All the English angered said
Strike! or know the reason why.

Jones and Boycott labouring well
Lost the fruits of earlier years;
Surely now 'tis time to quell,
Yet no remedy appears,

Farmers who had paid some rent
On the cold ground weltering lay;
Still on landlord plunder bent
Small attention did he pay.

Travelling Forster entering said:
But our "Bill" will strangled be;
Then the Premier raised his head--
Oh sweet, my child, I strike for thee.

* * * * *

IN IMMEMORIAM.

(_Ascribed to the author of "In Memoriam" but not believed to be his_).

We seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great intense,
And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft;
We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,
And look to earth and not aloft.

* * * * *

O sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,
O voices all! like you I die!
(_Dies._)

From _Medley_, by Cuthbert Bede, 1856.

The 1842 volume of Tennyson's works contained a short poem in four verses entitled

A FAREWELL.

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

* * *

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

* * * * *

The following parody is taken from _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872.

A FAREWELL.

_After sleeping in the Argyle Hotel, Dunoon._

Bite on, thou pertinacious flea,
And draw the tiny river;
No more for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Bite, fiercely bite, and take with glee
From each unwilling giver;
No food for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

And here will toss some wretched he,
And here he'll tear and shiver;
Bed-making she will hunt the flea
For ever and for ever.

A thousand limbs may smart for thee,
A thousand skins may quiver;
But not for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

A still closer imitation of the versification of the original is contained in _The Shotover Papers_, published in Oxford in 1874.

Rise up, cold reverend, to a see,
Confound the unbeliever!
Yet ne'er 'neath thee my seat will be
For ever and for ever.

Preach, softly preach, in lawn and be
A comely model liver,
But ne'er 'neath thee my seat shall be
For ever and for ever.

And here shall sleep thine alderman,
And here thy pauper shiver,
And here by thee shall buzz the "she,"
For ever and for ever.

A thousand men shall sneer at thee,
A thousand women quiver,
But ne'er 'neath thee my seat shall be
For ever and for ever.

* * * * *

ODE TO ALDGATE PUMP.

Flow down, false rivulet, to the sea
Thy sewage wave deliver;
No longer will I quaff from thee
For ever and for ever.

The dust of citizens of yore,
Who dwelt beside the river,
And leakages of sewers pour
Into thy stream for ever.

A thousand hands may pump from thee,
A thousand pails deliver
Their sparkling draughts, but not to me
For ever and for ever.

Oh, let them lock thy nozzle up,
And drain thee to the river;
Nor any mortal fill his cup
Again from thee for ever.

From _Funny Folks_.

* * * * *

THE UNDERGRAD.

His fists across his breast he laid,
He was more mad than words can say;
Bareheaded rushed the undergrad
To mingle in November's fray.
In cap and gown a don stepped down
To meet and greet him on his way;
"It is no wonder," said his friends,
"He has been drinking half the day."

All black and blue, like cloud and skies,
Next day that proctor's face was seen;
Bruised were his eyebrows, bruised his eyes,
Bruised was his nose and pummelled mien.
So dire a case, such black disgrace,
Since Oxford was had never been;
That undergrad took change of air
At the suggestion of the dean.

This is taken from _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872, and is a parody on _The Beggar Maid and King Cophetua_, which was also in the 1842 collection.

In a little volume by C. S. Calverley entitled "Fly Leaves," (George Bell & Sons, 1878) there are several clever parodies, and one, entitled _Wanderers_, is an especially happy imitation of the style of Tennyson's Brook:--

THE TINKER.

I turn'd me to the tinker, who
Was loafing down a by-way:
I asked him where he lived--a stare
Was all I got in answer,
As on he trudged: I rightly judged
The stare said, "Where I can, sir."?

I asked him if he'd take a whiff
Of 'bacca; he acceded;
He grew communicative too,
(A pipe was all he needed,)
Till of the tinker's life, I think,
I knew as much as he did.

"I loiter down by thorp and town;
For any job I'm willing;
Take here and there a dusty brown,
And here and there a shilling.

"I deal in every ware in turn,
I've rings for buddin' Sally
That sparkle like those eyes of her'n;
I've liquor for the valet.

"I steal from th' parson's strawberry plots,
I hide by th' squire's covers;
I teach the sweet young housemaids what's
The art of trapping lovers.

"The things I've done 'neath moon and stars
Have got me into messes:
I've seen the sky through prison bars,
I've torn up prison dresses.

"I've sat, I've sighed, I've gloom'd, I've glanced
With envy at the swallows
That through the windows slid, and danced
(Quite happy) round the gallows;

"But out again I come, and show
My face nor care a stiver,
For trades are brisk and trades are slow,
But mine goes on for ever."

* * * * *

Another parody of the same original, and almost as clever, is contained in a little anonymous Pamphlet, entitled _Idyls of the Rink_, published by Judd & Co., in 1876, it is called

THE RINKER

_By Alfred Tennyson._

I start from home in happy mood,
Arrayed in dress so pretty,
And sparkle out among the men,
Who come up from the City.

But first I linger by the brink,
And calmly reconnoitre,
For when I'm fairly on the rink,
I never care to loiter.

Then "follow me," I loudly call,
At skating I'm so clever,
For men may come, and men may fall,
But I rink on for ever.

I chatter with my little band
Of friends so gay and hearty,
And sometimes we go hand in hand,
And sometimes in a party.

I slip, I slide, I glance, I glide,
There is no one can teach me,
I give them all a berth full wide,
And not a soul can reach me.

I chatter, chatter, to them all,
At skating I'm so clever,
For men may come, and men may fall,
But I rink on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a figure tracing.
And here and there I dance about,
And here I go a-racing.

I'm always making graceful curves,
As everyone alleges.
And while I've nerve, I'll never swerve,
From in and outside edges.

And after me I draw them all,
At skating I'm so clever,
For men may come, and men may fall,
But I rink on for ever.

* * * * *

I now come to a clever and most amusing little work entitled _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, which was published about sixteen years ago by the late Mr. John Camden Hotten. In the original edition this work was a small quarto, with numerous illustrations and a characteristic frontispiece designed and etched by dear old George Cruikshank. It has since run through numerous editions, and is now included in the series known as _The Mayfair Library_, published by Chatto and Windus. It contains the following parodies:--"Song of In-the-Water," after _Longfellow;_ "The Du Chaillu Controversy," after _The Bon Gaultier Ballads;_ "The Fight for the Championship," after _Lord Macaulay;_ "How the Daughters come down at Dunoon," after _Robert Southey;_ "Wus, ever wus," after _Tom Moore;_ "Exexolor!" after _Longfellow's_ Excelsior; "Charge of the Light (Irish) Brigade," after _Tennyson_.

The incidents referred to in the last-mentioned parody have now somewhat faded from the public memory. It is sufficient to say that the warlike behaviour of the one brigade was quite as great a contrast to the action of the other, as the parody here given presents to the original poem:--

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT (IRISH) BRIGADE.

(_Not by A----d T----n_).

Southward Ho--Here we go!
O'er the wave onward
Out from the Harbour of Cork
Sailed the Six Hundred!
Sailed like Crusaders thence,
Burning for Peter's pence,--
Burning for fight and fame--
Burning to show their zeal--
Into the gates of Rome,
Into the jaws of Hell,
(It's all the same)!
Marched the Six Hundred!

"Barracks, and tables laid!
Food for the Pope's Brigade;"
But ev'ry Celt afraid,
Gazed on the grub dismay'd--
Twigged he had blundered;--
"Who can eat rancid grease?
Call _this_ a room a-piece?"[2]
"Silence! unseemly din,
Prick them with bayonets in."
Blessèd Six Hundred!

Waves every battle blade--
"Forward the Pope's brigade!"
Was there a man obeyed?
No--where they stood they stayed,
Though Lamoricière pray'd,
Threatened, and thundered--
"Charge!" Down their sabres then
Clashed, as they turn'd--and ran--
Sab'ring the empty air,
Each of one taking care,
Here, there, and ev'rywhere
Scattered and sundered.

Sick of the powder smell,
Down on their knees they fell,
Howling for hearth and home--
Cursing the Pope of Rome--
Whilst afar shot and shell
Volleyed and thundered;
Captured, alive and well,
Ev'ry Hibernian swell,
Came back the tale to tell;
Back from the states of Rome--
Back from the gates of Hell--
Safe and sound every man--
Jack of Six Hundred!
When shall their story fade?
Oh the mistake they made!
Nobody wondered,
Pity the fools they made--
Pity the Pope's Brigade--
NOBBLED Six Hundred!

Like the accomplished authors of _The Bon Gaultier Ballads_, Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell is almost too much a Poet to be thoroughly successful as a mere Parodist. His muse often carries him away, and what begins in mere _badinage_, and playful imitation, runs into graceful sentiment and poetical imagery, until the author pulls her up short, and compels her to turn aside again into the well-worn "footprints in the sand of time."

It would be difficult to find a better example both of the merits, and, so far as _mere parody_ is concerned, of the defects of Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell's style than in the following lines, which he has kindly permitted me to insert in this collection.--They parody the _Morte D'Arthur:_--

LINES SENT TO THE LATE CHARLES BUXTON, M.P., WITH MY FAVOURITE HUNTER, WHITE-MIST.

The sequel of to-day dissevers all
This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men
To hounds--the flyers of the hunt.
I think
That we shall never more in days to come
Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each
Praising his own the most) shall steal away
Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side
Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke,
Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below,
And leave the land behind us like a dream.

I tear me from this passion that I loved--
Though Paget sware that I should ride again--
But yet I think I shall not; I have done:
My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream,
The blossom of the seasons, and no more
For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath,
Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops.

Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride
(For still thou know'st he bore me like a man--),
And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere,
But set him straight and give his head the rein,
And he shall bear thee lightly to the front,
Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel,
And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place.

* * * * *

IN THE SCHOOLS AT OXFORD.

to an examiner.

(_Suggested by the Laureate's conundrum "In The Garden at Swaintson."_)

Butcher boys shouted without,
Within was writing for thee,
Shadows of three live men
Talked as they walked into me.
Shadows of three live men, and you were one of the three.

Butcher boys sang in the streets,
The bobby was far away,
Butcher boys shouted and sang
In their usual maddening way.--
Still in the Schools quite courteous you were torturing men all
the day.

Two dead men have I known,
Examiners settled by me.
Two dead men have I scored,
Now I will settle with thee.
Three dead men must I score, and thou art the last of the three.

REGNOLD GREENLEAF.

(_The Shotovor Papers_, 1874).

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,
Perhaps as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himself--I dedicate,
I dedicate,--I consecrate with tears--
These Idyls.

"And, indeed, He seems to me
Scarce other than my own ideal knight."

NOTE.--Poets Laureate, with the dates of their
appointment:--Benjamin Jonson, 1615-16; Sir William Davenant, 1638;
John Dryden, 1670; Thomas Shadwell, 1688; Nahum Tate, 1692; Nicholas
Rowe, 1715; Lawrence Eusden, 1718; Colley Cibber, 1730; William
Whitehead, 1757; Thomas Warton, 1785; Henry James Pye, 1790; Robert
Southey, 1813; William Wordsworth, 1843; and Alfred Tennyson, 19th
November, 1850.

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,
Perchance as finding there unwittingly
Some picture of himself--I dedicate,
I dedicate, I consecrate with smiles--
These Idle Lays--
Indeed, He seemed to me
Scarce other than my own ideal liege,
Who did not muchly care to trouble take;
But his concern was, comfortable ease
To dress in well-cut tweeds, in doeskin suits,
In pants of patterns marvellous to see;
To smoke good brands; to quaff rare vintages;
To feed himself with dainty meats withal;
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade;
To toy with what Neræa calls _her_ hair;
And, in a general way, to happy be,
If possible, and always debonair;
Who spoke few wise things; did some foolish ones;
Who was good-hearted, and by no means stiff;
Who loved himself as well as any man;
He who throughout his realms to their last isle
Was known full well, whose portraiture was found
In ev'ry album.
We have lost him; he is gone;
We know him now; ay, ay, perhaps too well,
For now we see him as he used to be,
How shallow, larky, genial-hearted, gay;
With how much of self-satisfaction blessed--
Not swaying to this faction nor to that,
Because, perhaps, he neither understood;
Not making his high place a Prussian perch
Of War's ambition, but the vantage ground
Of comfort; and through a long tract of years,
Wearing a bouquet in his button-hole;
Once playing a thousand nameless little games,
Till communistic cobblers gleeful danced,
And democratic delvers hissed, "Ha! ha!"
Who dared foreshadow,, then, for his own son
A looser life, one less distraught than his?
Or how could Dilkland, dreaming of _his_ sons,
Have hoped less for them than some heritance
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be--
If fate so wills it, O most potent K----;
The patron once of Polo and of Poole,
Of actors and leviathan "comiques;"
Once dear to Science as to Art; once dear
To Sanscrit erudition as to either;
Dear to thy country in a double sense;
Dear to purveyors; ay, a liege, indeed,
Beyond all titles, and a household name,
Hereafter, through all times, Guelpho the Gay!

_The Coming K----_

_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 public mind. After enjoying a rapid sale for a 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 Spiritualism, Table Rapping, and Cabinet 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,
And see--you ask me what it is I want?
Yet people call you wizard--why is this?
What is it makes you seem so proud and cold?
Yet if you'd really know what boon I ask,
Then tell me, dearest Herlin, ere I go,
The charm with which you make your table rap.

* * *

O yield my boon,
And grant my re-iterated wish,
Then will I love you, ay, and you shall kiss
My grateful lips--you shall upon my word."
And Herlin took his hand from hers and said,
O, Vilien, ask not this, but aught beside.
But as thou lov'st me, Vilien, do not ask
The way in which I make the table rap.
O ask it not!
And Vilien, like the tenderest hearted maid
That ever jilted swain or lover mocked,
Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears:
"Nay, Herlin, if you love me, say not so;
You do but tease to talk to me like this.
Methinks you hardly know the tender rhyme
Of 'Trust me for all in all, or not at all.'
I heard a 'comique' sing the verses once,
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 powers--
Give 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,
And leaves the banjo nothing worth at all.

It is the little moth within the suit,
It is the merry maggot in the fruit,
That worming surely, slowly ruins all.

It is the little leaven makes the lump,
It is the little piston works the pump;
And A-L-L spells ALL, and--all is all.'

O, Herlin, do you understand my rhyme?
And Herlin coughed, and owned that he did not.

* * * * *

And Villien, naught abashed, replied again:
"Lo, now, how silly you must be, you know,
My simple stanzas not to understand;
'Tis thus our truest poets write their rhymes;
They try their sense and meaning to conceal;
But you should solve their riddles, though 'tis said
They don't the answers know themselves, sometimes.
However, be that as it may, I think
I'll give you one verse more. So Villien sang:
"That sign, once mine, is thine, ay, closelier mine,
For what is thine is mine, and mine is thine,
And this, I much opine, is line on line;
To learn the obvious moral once for all."
But Herlin looked aghast, as well he might,
Nor knew the teaching of her little song."

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,
Believing thou wouldst fortune bring to me,
And place me higher yet in name and fame.
Then came the shameful act of Loosealot;
Then came thy breaking down in that great race;
And now my name's worth nil at Tattersall's,
And all my knights can curl their lips at me;
Can say 'I've come a cropper,' and the like,
And all through thee and he--and him, I mean--
But slips will happen at a time like this.
Canst wonder I am sad when thus I see
I am contemned amongst my chiefest knights?
When I am hinted at in public prints
As being a man who sold the people's race?
But think not, Goanveer, my matchless mare,
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee.
Yet must I leave thee to thy shame, for how
Couldst thou be entered for a race again?
The public would not hear of it; nay, more,
Would hoot and hound thee from the racing-course,
Being one they had loved, yet one on whom they had lost."
He paused, and in the pause the mare rejoiced.
For he relaxed the caresses of his arms;
And, thinking he had done, the mare did neigh,
As with delight; but Guelpho spake again:--
"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
Is past--it never will again return.
I came to take my last fond leave of thee,
For I shall ne'er run mare or horse again.
O silky mane, with which I used to play
At Hampton! O most perfect equine form,
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! O grand hocks
That faltered feebly on that fatal day!"

* * * * *

Yet, Goanveer, I bid thee now good-bye,
And leave thee, feeling yet a love for thee,
As one who first my racing instinct stirred,
As one who taught me to abjure the turf.
Hereafter we may meet--I cannot tell;
Thy future may be happy--so I wish.
But this I pray, on no account henceforth
Make mixture of your water--drink it neat;
I charge thee this. And now I must go hence;
Through the thick night I hear the whistle blow
That tells me that my 'special' waits to start.
Thou wilt stay here awhile, so be at rest;
But hither shall I never come again,
Or ever pat thy neck, or see thee more.
Good-bye!"

On the occasion of the arrival of the Princess Alexandra from Denmark in March, 1863, Tennyson wrote:--

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.

SEA-KINGS' daughter from over the sea,
Alexandra!
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we,
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee,
Alexandra!
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet!
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street!
Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet!
Scatter the blossom under her feet!

* * * * *

For Saxon or Dane or Norman we,
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be,
We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee,
Alexandra!

In 1869, Ismail Pasha, the Viceroy of Egypt, visited this country, and the following kindly welcome appeared in _The Tomahawk_ of July 10, 1869:--

BRITANNIA'S WELCOME TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER.

PLAGUE of Egypt, from over the sea,
Ismail Pasha!
Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be,
Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners are we,
But all John Bulls in our welcome of thee,
Ismail Pasha!

Welcome him, blunder of escort and suite,
Mounted inspector, and mob in the street!
Call up the first cab his Highness to meet!
Throw his hat-box and Bradshaw and rug on the seat!
Welcome him! feast him with fourpenny treat,
One glass of old ale and a sandwich to eat!
Scatter, O Royalty, gold for his keep!
Dream, all ye tradesmen of harvests to reap!
The Palace is empty, our pockets are deep!
Fling wide, O menial, the grand back door!
Take him, O attic, and rock him to sleep!
Strew a _viceregal_ shakedown on the floor!
Welcome him, welcome him, all that is cheap!
Sing, Prima Donna, and fashion stare!
Scrape up your regiments, weak and few,
Hurry, ye Commons, and all be there,
To swell the pomp of the grand review!
Chuckle, Britannia! a Sultan? pooh!
A nobody! don't we know who's who,
Ismail Pasha!

Seeking quarters for change of air,
Come to us, love us (but pay your fare)--
Guests such as you we are happy to see;
Come to us, love us, and have we not shown,
In breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, and tea,
Kindness to strangers as great as your own?
For Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners we,
Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be,
Yet thorough John Bulls in our welcome of thee,
Ismail Pasha!

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
Wrote I once at the royal summons.
More of us Danes than Antic Rum-uns!
No; let me see! I'll our welcome of thee,
Alexandra!

Have I gone mad, or taken a drappie?
Norman and Saxon and Dane a wee,
Just a wee drappie intil our ee,
My Indo-Teuton-Celtic chappie!
Norman and Saxon a wee are we,
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;
And it's all as easy as A, B, C,
To the poet who sang like a swan up a tree,
Alexandra!

"The promise of May" was a little bit late,
And a fox jumped over a parson's gate,
And he had my cochins, too, if you please,
With a cat to the cream, which was not the cheese;
And a guinea a line is about the rate
You must pay for what flows from the poet's pate
When the blue fire wakes up the whole of the town;
And I'm sure I don't know what to say about Brown.
But whatever I say and whatever I sing
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 been 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 clear,
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 Peers, 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 Peers.

As I came up the Row, Vicky, whom think you I should see?
Lord Queensberry against a lamp, and singing Tweedle-de-dee:
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 the Peers.

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 peers, 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;
But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of 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 handsomely entertained by Sir John Gray, M.P., the
Chairman of the Waterworks Committee, and by Mr. John Jameson, the
Deputy-Chairman.

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.")