PARODIES
OF THE WORKS OF
ENGLISH & AMERICAN AUTHORS,

COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY

WALTER HAMILTON,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies;
Author of "A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs," "A Memoir of George Cruikshank;"
"The Poets Laureate of England;" "The Æsthetic Movement in England," etc.

"We maintain that, far from converting virtue into a parodox, and degrading truth by ridicule, PARODY will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common-sense, and truth? After all, it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these PARODIES."
D'ISRAELI'S Curiosities of Literature.

VOLUME I,
CONTAINING PARODIES OF THE POEMS OF
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,
BRET HARTE, THOMAS HOOD,
AND THE
REVEREND C. WOLFE.

REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.

1884.

"Le sujet que l'on entreprend de parodier doit toujours être un ouvrage connu, célèbre, estimé. La critique d'une pièce médiocre ne peut jamais devenir intéressante, ni piquer la curiosité. Il faut que l'imitation soit fidèle, que les plaisantéries naissent du fond des choses, et paraissent s'être présentées d'elles-mêmes, sans avoir coûté aucune peine."

Mémoire sur l'origine de la Parodie, etc. Par M. l' Abbé Sallier, 1733.

"It was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the Greek parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing!"
ISAAC D'ISRAELI.

THOBURN & CO., St. Bride's Steam Press, 136, Salisbury Square, Fleet Street, London, E.C.

PREFACE.

When this Collection was originally projected, it seemed so unlikely to receive much support from the general public that it was intended to publish a few only of the best Parodies of each author.

After the issue of the first few numbers, however, it became evident that "a hit—a palpable hit—" had been made, the sale rapidly increased, and subscribers not only expressed their desire that the collection should be made as nearly complete as possible, but by the loans of scarce books, and copies of Parodies, helped to make it so.

This involved an alteration in the original arrangement, and as it would have been monotonous to fill a whole number of sixteen pages with parodies of one short poem, such as those on "Excelsior," or Wolfe's Ode, it became necessary to spread them over several numbers. In the Index, which has been carefully compiled, references will be found, under the titles of the original Poems, to all the parodies mentioned. In all cases, where it has been possible to do so, full titles and descriptions of the works quoted from, have been given; any omission to do this has been unintentional, and will be at once rectified on the necessary information being supplied.

To the following gentlemen I am much indebted for assistance in the formation of this collection, either by granting permission to quote from their works, or by their original contributions:—Messrs. Lewis Carroll (author of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"), G. P. Beckley, James Gordon, John Lane, J. W. Morris, Walter Parke (author of "The Lays of the Saintly"), H. Cholmondeley Pennell (author of "Puck on Pegasus"), Major-General Rigaud, Edward Simpson, G. R. Sims, Basil H. Soulsby, Edward Walford, M.A. (Editor of "The Antiquarian Magazine"), J. W. Gleeson White, W. H. K. Wright, Public Library, Plymouth, and John Whyte, Public Library, Inverness. A great deal of bibliographical information was sent me by my late lamented friend, the learned and genial Mr. William Bates, Editor of "The Maclise Portrait Gallery;" his brother, Mr. A. H. Bates; the Rev. T. W. Carson, of Dublin; and Miss Orton, have also given me valuable assistance.

In a few cases where parodies are to be found in easily accessible works, extracts only have been quoted, or references given; but it is intended in future, wherever permission can be obtained, to give each parody in full, as they are found to be useful for public entertainments, and recitations. When the older masters of our Literature are reached, a great deal of curious and amusing information will be given, and it is intended to conclude with a complete bibliographical account of PARODY, with extracts and translations from all the principal works on the topic. Whilst arranging the present volume, I have been gathering materials for those to come, which will illustrate the works of those old writers whose names are familiar in our mouths as household words. Much that is not only quaint and amusing will thus be collected, whilst many illustrations of our literature, both in prose and verse, which are valuable to the student, will for the first time be methodically arranged, annotated, and published in a cheap and accessible form.

WALTER HAMILTON.

64, BROMFELDE ROAD, CLAPHAM, LONDON, S.W.
December, 1884.

INDEX.

The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems are printed in small capitals, followed by the Parodies.

PARODIES
OF
THE WORKS OF
ENGLISH & AMERICAN AUTHORS,

COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY
WALTER HAMILTON,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies;
Author of "The Æsthetic Movement in England," "The Poets Laureate of England,"
"A Memoir of George Cruikshank," etc.

INTRODUCTION.

I HAVE, for many years past, been collecting Parodies of the works of the most celebrated British and American Authors. This I have done, not because I entirely approve of the custom of turning high-class work into ridicule, but because many of the parodies are in themselves works of considerable literary merit. Moreover, as "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery," so does a parody show that its original has acquired a certain celebrity, for no author would waste his time, or his talent, in composing a burlesque of an unknown, or obscure work.

Numerous articles on parodies are to be found scattered up and down in odd corners of old magazines and reviews, a few small books have been written on the topic; but, until now, no attempt has been made to give, in a connected form, a history of parody with examples and explanatory notes.

This, then, is what I propose to do in the following articles, and those who desire to possess a complete set of parodies on any favourite author, would do well to preserve these papers for future reference.

PARODY is a form of composition of a somewhat ungracious description, as it owes its very existence to the work it caricatures; but it has some beneficial results in drawing our attention to the defects of some authors, whose stilted language and grandiloquent phrases have veiled their poverty of ideas, their sham sentiment, and their mawkish affectations.

The first attribute of a parody is that it should present a sharp contrast to the original either in subject, or treatment of the subject; that if the original subject should be some lofty theme, the parody may reduce it to a prosaic matter-of-fact narrative. If, on the other hand, the topic selected be one of every day life, it may be made exceedingly amusing if described in high-flown mock heroic diction. If the original errs in sentimental affectation, so much the better for the parodist. Thus many of Tom Moore's best known songs are mere windy platitudes in very musical verse, which afford excellent and legitimate materials for ridicule. The nearer the original diction is preserved, and the fewer the alterations needed to produce a totally opposite meaning or ridiculous contrast, the more complete is the antithesis, the more striking is the parody; take for instance Pope's well-known lines:—

"Here shall the Spring its earliest sweets bestow,

Here the first roses of the year shall blow,"

which, by the alteration of two words only, were thus applied by Miss Katherine Fanshawe to the Regent's Park when it was first opened to the public:—

"Here shall the Spring its earliest coughs bestow,

Here the first noses of the year shall blow."

In this happy parody we have that "union of remote ideas," which is said, and said truly, to constitute the essence of wit. Even the most serious and religious works have been parodied, and by authors of the highest position. Thus Luther mimicked the language of the Bible, and both Cavaliers and Puritans railed at each other in Scriptural phraseology. The Church services and Litanies of both the Catholic, and Protestant Churches, have served in turn as originals for many bitter satires and lampoons, directed at one time against the Church and the priests, at another time in equally bitter invective against their opponents.

To undertake the composition of parodies, as the word is generally comprehended—that is, to make a close imitation of some particular poem, though it should be characteristic of the author—would be at times rather a flat business. Even the Brothers Smith in "Rejected Addresses," and Bon Gaultier in his "Ballads," admirable as they were, stuck almost too closely to their selected models; and Phœbe Carey, who has written some of the best American parodies, did the same thing. It is an evidence of a poet's distinct individuality, when he can be amusingly imitated. We can only make those the object of our imitations whose manner, or dialect, stamps itself so deeply into our minds that a new cast can be taken. But how could one imitate Robert Pollok's "Course of Time," or Young's "Night Thoughts," or Blair's "Grave," or any other of those masses of words, which are too ponderous for poetry, and much too respectable for absurdity! Either extreme will do for a parody, excellence or imbecility; but the original must at least have a distinct, pronounced character.

Certain well known poems are so frequently selected as models for parodies that it will only be possible to select a few from the best of them; to re-publish every parody that has appeared on Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade," E. A. Poe's "The Raven," Hamlet's Soliloquy, or Longfellow's "Excelsior," would be a tedious, and almost endless task.

Prose parodies, though less numerous than those in verse, are often far more amusing, and it will be found that Dr. Johnson's ponderous sentences, Carlyle's rugged eloquence, and Dickens' playful humour and tender pathos, lend themselves admirably to parody.

The first portion of this work will be devoted to the parodies themselves, accompanied by short notes sufficient to explain such allusions as may, in time, appear obscure; the second will contain a full bibliographical account of all the principal collections of Parodies and Works on the subject, such as the "Probationary Odes," Hone's Trials, the "Rejected Addresses," and the late M. Octave Delepierre's Essai sur la Parodie. The latter work, which was published by Trübner & Co. in 1870, gave an account of old Greek and Roman, and of modern French and English Parodies. I had the pleasure of supplying M. Delepierre with the materials for his chapter on English Parodies, but, owing to the limited space at his command, he was only able to quote a verse or two of the best parody of each description. My aim will be to give each parody intact, except in the few cases where I have been unable to obtain the author's permission to do so.

WALTER HAMILTON.

Alfred Tennyson.

Poet Laureate.

ALFRED TENNYSON, the third of seven brothers, was born August 5th, 1809, at Somersby, a small village near Horncastle, in Lincolnshire. His father, Dr. George Clayton Tennyson, was the rector of this parish, he was a man remarkable for his strength, stature, and varied attainments as poet, painter, musician and linguist. In 1827, Alfred Tennyson, with his elder brother Charles, both then being scholars at the Louth Grammar school, published a small volume entitled "Poems by Two Brothers." Shortly afterwards, these two brothers removed to Trinity College, Cambridge, and in 1829, Alfred Tennyson obtained the Chancellor's Gold Medal for his poem on "Timbuctoo." His subsequent poetical works rapidly attracted attention, and, on the death of William Wordsworth, he was created Poet Laureate, the Warrant being dated the 19th November, 1850. As a poet he has achieved almost the highest fame, but in his numerous efforts as a dramatist he has been less successful.

For the consideration of the Parodies of Tennyson's poems, they may conveniently be divided into three periods, namely, his early Poems, poems in connection with his appointment in 1850 to the office of Poet Laureate, and Poems since that date. Although Tennyson has suppressed many of his early works, yet he occasionally furbishes up, and re-issues as a new poem some of his youthful compositions.

Fastidious as he is known to be in his selection of what he thus re-publishes, it is still a matter of some surprise that he should have entirely suppressed his prize poem Timbuctoo, which would always be of interest as a specimen of his early work, and is, besides, far removed above the average of Prize Poems.

The poems were sent in for competition in the month of April, 1829; and on June 12, 1829, the Cambridge Chronicle recorded that "On Saturday last, the Chancellor's Gold Medal for the best English poem by a resident undergraduate was adjudged to Alfred Tennyson, of Trinity College." Shortly afterwards the poem was published, and was favourably reviewed in The Athenæum, which speaking of Prize poems generally, stated, "These productions have often been ingenious and elegant, but we have never before seen one of them which indicated really first-rate poetical genius, and which would have done honour to any man that ever wrote. Such, we do not hesitate to affirm, is the little work before us."

W. M. Thackeray was at Cambridge at the same time as Tennyson, and early in 1829 he commenced the publication of a small paper entitled "THE SNOB, a Literary and Scientific Journal, not conducted by members of the University." This was published by W. H. Smith, of Rose Crescent, Cambridge, and ran for eleven weeks: its contents were humorous sketches in prose and verse, and the most remarkable paper amongst them is the following droll poem on Timbuctoo, which appeared on the 30th April, 1829, and has most unaccountably been omitted from recent editions of Thackeray's works:—

To the Editor of the "SNOB."

SIR,—Though your name be Snob, I trust you will not refuse this tiny "Poem of a Gownsman," which was unluckily not finished on the day appointed for delivery of the several copies of verses on Timbuctoo. I thought, Sir, it would be a pity that such a poem should be lost to the world; and conceiving "THE SNOB" to be the most widely circulated periodical in Europe, I have taken the liberty of submitting it for insertion or approbation.—I am, Sir, yours, &c., &c.

TIMBUCTOO.—PART I.

The Situation.

In Africa (a quarter of the world),

Men's skins are black, their hair is crisp and curl'd,

And somewhere there, unknown to public view,

A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo.

The Natural History.

5

There stalks the tiger,—there the lion roars,

Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors;

All that he leaves of them the monster throws

To jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites and crows;

His hunger thus the forest monster gluts,

And then lies down 'neath trees called cocoa-nuts.

The lion hunt.

Quick issue out, with musket, torch, and brand,

The sturdy blackamoors, a dusky band!

The beast is found—pop goes the musketoons—

The lion falls covered with horrid wounds.

Their lives at home.

15

At home their lives in pleasure always flow,

But many have a different lot to know!

Abroad.

They're often caught and sold as slaves, alas!

Reflections on the foregoing.

Thus men from highest joy to sorrow pass,

Yet though thy monarch and thy nobles boil

Rack and molasses in Jamaica's isle;

Desolate Africa! thou art lovely yet!!

One heart yet beats which ne'er thee shall forget.

What though thy maidens are a blackish brown,

Does virtue dwell in whiter breasts alone?

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no!

It shall not, must not, cannot, e'er be so.

The day shall come when Albion's self shall feel

Stern Afric's wrath, and writhe 'neath Afric's steel.

I see her tribes the hill of glory mount,

And sell their sugars on their own account;

While round her throne the prostrate nations come,

Sue for her rice, and barter for her rum!

NOTES.—Lines 1 and 2.—See Guthrie's Geography. The site of Timbuctoo is doubtful; the author has neatly expressed this in the poem, at the same time giving us some slight hints relative to its situation.

Line 5.—So Horace: leonum arida nutrix.

Line 13.—"Pop goes the musketoons." A learned friend suggested "Bang" as a stronger expression, but as African gunpowder is notoriously bad, the author thought "Pop" the better word.

Lines 15-18.—A concise but affecting description is here given of the domestic habits of the people. The infamous manner in which they are entrapped and sold as slaves is described, and the whole ends with an appropriate moral sentiment. The enthusiasm the author feels is beautifully expressed in lines 25 and 26.

Although this poem is not actually a parody of Tennyson's Timbuctoo, it is a clever burlesque of Prize poems in general, and derives interest as being one of Thackeray's earliest writings.

The first independent volume of poems which Tennyson published in 1830, contained Mariana, The Ballad of Oriana, Adeline, Lilian, The Poet, The Merman, and the Mermaid, all of which are so well known that the following parodies require no introduction:—

ORIANA.

A Tennyson-cum-Albery Ballad.

I went to see thee at the Globe,

Oriana!

I tried thy mystery to probe,

Oriana!

But Oh! long talk, bare limbs, rich robe,

Gems decking hand or pendant lobe,

Oriana!

Would tire the patience out of Job,

Oriana!

I saw the lime-light shadows flinging,

Oriana!

I saw black boys, a mattress bringing,

Oriana!

I saw thee to forlorn hope clinging,

I heard the bells of faërie ringing,

Oriana;

And (out of tune) a chorus singing,

Oriana!

I saw a high-priest sage and hoary,

Oriana;

"Friend WAGGLES" struggling with a story,

Oriana.

A youth, in managerial glory,

Striving in vain, tho' con amore,

Oriana,

As (save the mark!) primo tenore,

Oriana,

I came! I saw! I mark'd each word,

Oriana!

Ah, had my visit been deferr'd,

Oriana,

Some better things I might have heard;

But judging from what then occurr'd,

Oriana,

You seem'd a trifle too absurd,

Oriana.

From Fun, February 26th, 1873.

"Oriana," a romantic legend in three acts, by James Albery, music by F. Clay, was first performed at the Globe Theatre, on Saturday, February 15th, 1873. The lessee and manager, Mr. H. J. Montague, performed the part of King Raymond, that of Oriana being represented by Miss Rose Massey. The plot was founded on a fairy tale, slightly resembling Mr. Gilbert's "Palace of Truth," but, beyond the name, the play had nothing in common with Tennyson's poem of "Oriana."

MARIANA.

(At the Railway Station.)

Her parcels, tied with many a knot,

Were thickly labelled, one and all;

And sitting down beside the lot,

She waited for the train to call.

The waiting-room looked sad and strange—

Closed was the booking-office latch!

She watched the sleepy porter scratch

His head, or whistle as a change;

She only said, "The night is dreary—

It cometh not," she said;

She said, "I am aweary, aweary—

I would I were in bed."

She sought the grim refreshment stall—

The saucy barmaid long had slept;

O'er biscuit, bun, and sandwich small

The shining beetles slowly crept.

Hard by a signal post alway

Shot coloured beams into the dark.

She called the porter to remark,

In tones the opposite of gay:

"The hour is late, the night is dreary—

It cometh not," she said;

Then mentally: "The man is beery—

I would I were in bed."

About the middle of the night

She heard the shrill steam-whistle blow,

And saw the signals gleaming bright;

And from dark pens the oxen's low

Came to her; but she watched with pain

A train with many a cattle van

Sweep past her, and the signal man

Reversed his lamps, and snoozed again.

She only said, "The night is dreary—

It cometh not," she said;

She said, "I am aweary, aweary,

Of lamps, green, white, and red!"

The tired officials kept aloof,

The telegraphic wires did sound

Their notes Æolian on the roof,

And goods trains shunting did confound

Her sense; yet still she waited on,

Until the porter came in sight—

"There is no other train to-night;

The next will stop at early dawn."

She only said, "I am aweary;

It seems to me," she said,

"Your tables, like yourself, are beery—

Go find me now a bed."

THE WEDDING DRESS.

In picturesque confusion lies

Her scattered finery on the floor,

And here and there her handmaid flies

With parcels to increase the store.

But dolefully she paced the room,

Although it was her wedding morn,

And often spoke in tones of scorn,

And brow of ever-deepening gloom.

She only said, "The morn is dreary;"

"It cometh not," she said.

She said, "The milliner is weary,

Or stayed too late in bed."

She hears the sound of pipe and drum,

And from the window looketh she:

Nodding their heads before her come

The merry Teuton minstrelsy,

Who wait to play "The Wedding March."

A member of the "force" stalks by,

And little urchins mocking cry,

"Oh, ain't he swallowed lots o' starch?"

She laughed not, for she heard a chime:

"Eleven o'clock!" she said.

"I wonder if 'twill be in time?

I would that I were wed."

How swiftly now the minutes pass.

With ribbons, laces, pins, and thread—

With peeps into the looking-glass,

And tossings of the pretty head.

Full half an hour of anxious strife;

But still no wedding dress is there

To decorate the form so fair

Of her who would be made a wife.

"Three quarters!" cried she weeping—weary.

"It cometh now!" they said.

The maiden looked no longer dreary,

But hastened to be wed.

From Funny Folks.

In the Bon Gaultier Ballads is a parody of Lilian entitled:—

CAROLINE.

LIGHTSOME, brightsome, cousin mine,

Easy, breezy, Caroline!

With thy locks all raven-shaded,

From thy merry brow up-braided,

And thine eyes of laughter full,

Brightsome cousin mine!

Thou in chains of love hast bound me—

Wherefore dost thou flit around me,

Laughter-loving Caroline!

When I fain would go to sleep

In my easy chair,

Wherefore on my slumbers creep—

Wherefore start me from repose,

Tickling of my hookèd nose,

Pulling of my hair?

Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me,

So to words of anger move me,

Corking of this face of mine,

Tricksy cousin Caroline?

* * *

Would she only say she'd love me,

Winsome, tinsome, Caroline,

Unto such excess 'twould move me,

Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine!

That she might the live-long day

Undermine the snuffer-tray,

Tickle still my hookèd nose,

Startle me from calm repose

With her pretty persecution;

Throw the tongs against my shins,

Run me through and through with pins,

Like a piercèd cushion;

Would she only say she'd love me,

Darning-needles should not move me;

But, reclining back I'd say,

"Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray;

Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine!

Cork me, cousin Caroline!"

I next give an extract from a capital parody of The Merman, taken from The Bon Gaultier Ballads, in which the allusions to the Laureate's office are happily introduced.

THE LAUREATE.

WHO would not be

The Laureate bold,

With his butt of sherry

To keep him merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!

When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,

I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long,

With Her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.

I'd care not a pin for the waiting lord;

But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward

With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,

And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,

And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,

And watch the clouds that are listless as I,

Lazily, lazily!

And I'd pick the moss and daisies white,

And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;

And I'd let my fancies roam abroad

In search of a hint for a birthday ode,

Crazily, crazily!

* * * * *

Oh, would not that be a merry life,

Apart from care and apart from strife,

With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,

And no deductions at quarter-day!

Oh, that would be the post for me!

With plenty to get and nothing to do,

But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,

And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,

And scribble of verses remarkably few,

And at evening empty a bottle or two!

Quaffingly, quaffingly!

'Tis I would be

The Laureate bold,

With my butt of sherry

To keep me merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!

THE MERMAID.

(By a disgusted Tar with a vague recollection of TENNYSON.)

I.

Who would be

A Mermaid dank.

Bobbing about

In a sort of tank,

For the crowd to see

At a shilling a head,

In doubt if it be

Alive or dead?

II.

I would not be a Mermaid dank,

Flopping about in a Westminster tank,

Like a shabby sham at a country fair,

And by far the ugliest monster there;

Exposed to the Cockneys' vulgar chaff,

And the learned gush of the Daily T.,

To be called a porpoise or ocean-calf,

Or a seven-foot slug from the deep blue sea.

Me a Manatee? Dickens a bit!

The Mermaid of fiction was something fine,

A fish-tailed Siren given to sit

On a handy rock, 'midst the breezy brine,

Each golden curl with a comb of pearl

Arranging in many a taking twirl,

Like a free-and-easy nautical girl.

Taking a bath in a primitive style

Without any bother of dress or machine,

And likely the wandering tar to beguile,

If that Mariner chanced to be anyways green.

But your Modern Mermaid! good gracious me!

Who'd be inwiggled away from his tracks

Or driven to bung up his ears with wax

By the wiles and smiles of a Manatee?

A sort of shapeless squab sea-lubber,

A blundering bulk of leather and blubber,

Like an overgrown bottle of India-rubber;

The clumsiest, wobblingest, queerest of creatures,

With nothing but small gimlet-holes for features.

This a Mermaid? Oh, don't tell me!

It's simply some sly scientifical spree,

And I mean to say it's a thundering shame

To bestow the Siren's respectable name,

Which savours of all that is rare and romantic,

On such a preposterous monster as this is,

Whose hideous phiz and ridiculous antic,

Would simply have frightened the mates of Ulysses.

Fancy the horror of blubberous kisses

From a mouth that's like a tarpaulin flap!

That Merman must be a most amorous chap

Who would sue her and woo her under the sea.

As TENNYSON sings—a nice treat it would be

Were a Mermaid merely a Manatee!

From Punch, July 20th, 1878, in reference to the so-called Mermaid then being exhibited at the Westminster Aquarium.

Tennyson's—The Poet—was in fourteen verses of four lines each; it commenced thus:—

"The poet in a golden clime was born,

With golden stars above;

Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,

The love of love."

"He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill,

He saw thro' his own soul.

The marvel of the everlasting will,

An open scroll,"

"Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded

The secretest walks of fame:

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed

And wing'd with flame."

The following parody, which appeared in Punch, was apropos of the poetry of the so-called "Fleshly School," and very closely follows the diction of the original:—

THE POET (OF THE PERIOD).

With Punch's apologies for the application of noble Stanzas to an ignoble subject.

THE Poet in a dismal clime was born,

With lurid stars above;

Dower'd with a taste for hate, a love for scorn,

A scorn for love.

He glanced through life and death, through good and ill,

He glanced through his own soul;

And found all dead as a dishonoured bill,

Or emptied bowl.

He thrummed his lay; with mincing feet he threaded

The walks of coterie fame:

On the dull arrows of his thought were threaded

Concetti tame

And pop-gun pellets from his lisping tongue,

Erratic in their flight,

From studio to drawing-room he flung,

Filling with light

And mazèd phantasies each morbid mind,

Which, albeit lacking wit,

Like dandelion seeds blown by the wind,

In weak souls lit,

Took shallow root, and springing up anew

Where'er they dropt, behold,

Like to the parent plant in semblance, grew

A weed as bold,

And fitly furnished all abroad to fling

Fresh mockeries of truth,

And throng with poisonous blooms the verdant Spring

Of weak-kneed youth.

Till many minds were lit with borrowed beams

Of an unwholesome fire;

And many fed their sick souls with hot dreams

Of vague desire.

Thus trash was multiplied on trash; the world

Like a Gehenna glowed,

And through the clouds of Stygian dark upcurled,

Foul radiance flowed;

And Licence lifted in that false sunrise

Her bold and brazen brow;

While Purity before her burning eyes

Melted like snow.

There was red blood upon her trailing robes,

Lit by those lurid skies;

And round the hollow circles of the globes

Of her hot eyes,

And on her robe's hem, "FOLLY" showed in flames

With "PHRENSY," names to shake

Coherency and sense—misleading names—

And when she spake,

Her words did gather fury as they ran,

And as mock lightning and stage thunder,

With firework flash and empty rataplan,

Make schoolboys wonder,

So thrilled thro' fools her windy words. No sword

Of truth her right hand twirl'd,

But one bad Poet's scrawl, and with his word

She bored the world.

In 1832 Tennyson published another small volume of poems which contained that beautifully classical piece of blank verse Œnone; The Sisters, The Palace of Art, Lady Clara Vere de Vere, The May Queen, The Lotus-Eaters, The Dream of Fair Women, and Margaret, all of which have been so frequently parodied that selection is indeed difficult.

The following parody of Tennyson's, The Sisters, was apropos to a division in the House of Commons, relative to the vexed question of marriage with a deceased wife's sister, and appeared in The Tomahawk.

MATRIMONIAL EXPEDIENCY.

They were two daughters of one race:

One dead, the other took her place;

Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee!

The Noes were but one forty-four;

I'm backed by retrospective law;

Oh! the Ayes were two forty-three!

Who'd run a tilt 'gainst common sense?

I married for convenience;

Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee!

'Tis wiser th' ills we know to bear,

Than run the chance of worse elsewhere;

Oh! the Ayes were two forty-three!

Twice married—but I'm bound to state

Th' expediency of this is great;

Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee!

I'm now no worse off than before,

I only have one mother-in-law,

And she's one too many for me!

A good many years ago a little volume, entitled "Carols of Cockayne," written by the late Mr. Henry S. Leigh, (who died June, 1883) had considerable success. It contained a number of Ballads and Parodies, and amongst others two amusing imitations of Tennyson (they can hardly be styled parodies), the first is in answer to the Laureate's somewhat bitter attack on a lady entitled "Lady Clara Vere de Vere:—"

The Lady Clara V. de V.

Presents her very best regards

To that misguided Alfred T.

(With one of her enamell'd cards).

Though uninclin'd to give offence,

The Lady Clara begs to hint

That Master Alfred's common sense

Deserts him utterly in print.

The Lady Clara can but say

That always from the very first

She snubb'd in her decisive way

The hopes that silly Alfred nurs'd.

The fondest words that ever fell

From Lady Clara, when they met,

Were "How d'ye do? I hope you're well!"

Or else "The weather's very wet."

To show a disregard for truth

By penning scurrilous attacks,

Appears to Lady C. in sooth

Like stabbing folks behind their backs.

The age of chivalry, she fears,

Is gone for good, since noble dames

Who irritate low sonneteers

Get pelted with improper names.

The Lady Clara cannot think

What kind of pleasure can accrue

From wasting paper, pens, and ink,

On statements the reverse of true.

If Master Launcelot, one fine day,

(Urged on by madness or by malt,)

Destroy'd himself—can Alfred say

The Lady Clara was in fault?

Her Ladyship needs no advice

How time and money should be spent,

And can't pursue at any price

The plan that Alfred T. has sent.

She does not in the least object

To let the "foolish yeoman" go,

But wishes—let him recollect—

That he should move to Jericho.

The other, a reply to a well known song, is scarcely so good, because it does not follow its original so closely:—

MAUD.

NAY, I cannot come into the garden just now,

Tho' it vexes me much to refuse:

But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow,

With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.

I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear

That our ball has been quite a success.

As for me—I've been looking a monster, my dear,

In that old fashion'd guy of a dress.

You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed;

It is getting so dreadfully late.

You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head

If you linger so long at our gate.

Don't be obstinate Alfy; come, take my advice,

For I know you're in want of repose.

Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice),

And remember to tallow your nose.

No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away,

For De Boots has implor'd me to sing.

As to you—if you like it, of course you can stay;

You were always an obstinate thing.

If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs

About "babble and revel and wine,"

When you might have been snoring for two or three hours,

Why, it's not the least business of mine.

In 1879 the Editor of The World offered a prize for the best parody on Tennyson's Lotus-Eaters, the chosen subject being "Her Majesty's Ministers at Greenwich."

The prize was awarded to C. J. Billson, for the following parody, which appeared in The World, for September 3rd, 1879:—

THE WHITEBAIT-EATERS.

"COURAGE!" they said, and pointed through the gloom;

"There is a haven in yon fishful clime."

At dinner-time they came into a room,

In which it seemèd all day dinner-time.

All in the midst the banquet rose sublime,

Whose menu excellent no tongue might blame;

And round about the board, without their Prime,

Without their prime delight and chiefest fame,

The mild-eyed muddle-headed whitebait-eaters came.

They sat them down upon the yellow chairs,

And feasted gaily as in days of yore;

And sweet it was to jest of late affairs,

Of Ward and Power and Cat; but evermore

Most weary seemed the Session almost o'er,

Weary Hibernian nights of barren seed.

Then some one said, "We shall come here no more!"

And all at once they cried, "No more, indeed!

The ballot shall release; we will no longer lead!"

CHORIC SONG.

Why are we weighed upon with weariness,

With foreign crises and with home distress,

When all we do is mocked at by the Press?

All men like peace: why should we toil alone?

We always toil, and nevermore have rest;

But yield perpetual jest,

Still from one blunder to another thrown:

Nor ever pack our tricks,

And cease from politics;

Nor vote our last against the wild O'Connor;

Nor hearken what the moving spirit said,

"Let there be Peace with Honour!"

Why should we always toil, when England's trust is dead?

Let us alone. What pleasure could we have

To war with Afghans? But the Chief said "Fight!

The times are perilous and the Jingoes rave,

Whate'er I do is right."

Yea, interests are hard to reconcile;

'Tis hard to please yet help the little isle;

We have done neither quite.

Though we change the music ever, yet the people scorn our song;

O rest ye, brother Ministers, we shall not labour long.

AUGUSTO MENSE POETA.
(C. J. Billson.)

In the year 1868, when the mania for trapeze performances was at its height, and men and women were nightly risking their lives to please the thoughtless audiences at the music halls, The Tomahawk had some powerful cartoons (drawn by Matt Morgan) in condemnation of this senseless and dangerous form of entertainment; it also published the following parody of—

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.

I read, before I fell into a doze,

Some book about old fashions—curious tales

Of bye-gone fancies—kirtles and trunk hose—

Of hoops, and fardingales—

Of mediæval milliners, whose taste

Preluded our vile fashions of to day—

Of how they moulded the ancestral waist

With steel-bound taffeta—

Of powdered heroes of the later days—

Of Hamlets strutting in their full court suits,

Slouch-hatted villains of transpontine plays,

All belt and bucket boots—

So shape chased shape (as swiftly as, when knocks

Of angry tradesmen bluster at the door,

Turgid with envelopes my letter box

Boils over on the floor).

Till fancy, running riot in my brain,

Elbowed the PAST from out the PRESENT'S way;

And opened in my dream, distinct and plain,

A vision of to-day.

Methought that I was on what's called "a spree,"

Yet sadly pensive in the motley throng.

Where thrills through clouds of smoke the melody

Of idiotic song;

Where youth with tipsy rapture drowns in beer

All common sense, votes decency a bore,

But, to the shapely limbs and sensuous leer,

Yells out a loud "Encore—"

Then flashed before me in the gaslights' glare

A form to make the boldest hold his breath,

She, who by reckless leapings in mid air,

Plays pitch and toss with Death.

Shame on the gaping crowds who only know

Sensation in the chance of broken necks!

Shame on the manliness that cries "Bravo"

To such a scorn of sex!

I saw that now, since License holds such sway,

The comic muse her false position feels,

And that her sister may not gain the day,

Has taken to her heels.

And then methought I stood in fairy bowers,

Where Dulness hides behind the mask of Fun,

Where tin-foil and Dutch metal do for flowers,

And lime-light is the sun;

Where Art groans under an unseemly ban,

And airy nothings pass for full attire,

The Stage appeals but to the baser man,

And th' only blush, Red Fire!

* * * *

Then starting I awoke from my nightmare.

A nightmare? No! the truth came clear to me.

I'd dream'd the truth—bare facts (O much too bare!)

And stern reality.

An Extract from the original MARGARET.

O, SWEET pale Margaret,

O, rare pale Margaret,

What lit your eyes with tearful power,

Like moonlight on a falling shower?

Who lent you, love, your mortal dower

Of pensive thought and aspect pale,

Your melancholy sweet and frail

As perfume of the cuckoo-power?

* * * *

What can it matter, Margaret,

What songs below the waning stars

The lion-heart, Plantagenet,

Sang, looking thro' his prison bars?

Exquisite Margaret, who can tell

The last wild thought of Chatelet,

Just ere the fallen axe did part

The burning brain from the true heart,

Even in her sight he loved so well?

* * * *

MARY ANN.

(After Mr. Tennyson's "Margaret.")

O, slipshod Mary Ann,

O, draggled Mary Ann,

What gives your arms such fearful power

To raise the dust in blinding shower?

Who gave you strength, your mortal dower,

To beat the mats as with a flail.

To lift with ease that heavy pail?

What can it matter, Mary Ann,

What songs the long-legged son of Mars—

The butcher or the cat's meat man—

Sings to you thro' the area bars?

O, red-armed Mary, you may tell

The milkman, when he fills our can,

You wonder how he has the heart

To let the pump play such a part

In milk for her he loves so well!

You stand not in such attitudes,

You are not quite so plain,

Nor so sulky in your moods,

As your twin-sister, Mary Jane,

Your face is cleaner, and your nose

Not touched with such a grimy hue,

With cold ærially blue,

Or crimson as the damask rose!

ALBANY CLARKE.

From The Weekly Dispatch, 25th June, 1882.

It is in the strongly marked individuality of some of Tennyson's early poems that we find, at once, the secret of much of his popularity, and the excuse for the vast number of parodies of his works scattered about in nearly all our humorous literature; and three of the early poems have been especially chosen by parodists as models for imitation; these are the "May Queen," "Locksley Hall," and the "Charge of the Light Brigade."

In the "Bon Gaultier Ballads" by Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun, will be found several parodies of Tennyson, also of Lord Macaulay, Tom Moore, Bulwer Lytton, Mrs. Browning, and of Leigh Hunt, of whom parodies are rare.

Of the parodies of Tennyson, "Caroline" and "The Laureate" have already been quoted; the others are "The Lay of the Lovelorn" and "The Dirge of the Drinker," both in imitation of "Locksley Hall," "La Mort D'Arthur," concerning Mechi's steel; and the "The Biter Bit."

"The Biter Bit" is a kind of burlesque continuation of the "May Queen," the tender pathos of the original being turned into cynical indifference, whilst preserving a great similarity of style and versification.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New Year,

Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest merriest day;

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

* * * * *

As I came up the valley whom think ye I should see,

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be:

They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me?

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

* * * * *

TENNYSON.

THE BITER BIT.

THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,

And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;

The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,

And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother,—I hear the marriage bell:

It booms along the upland, oh! it haunts me like a knell;

He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,

And closely by his side she clings,—she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,

The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;

And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,

Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,

By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed:

And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;

But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother,—that I looked for rank and gold;

He said I did not love him,—he said my words were cold;

He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,—

And it may be that I did, mother, but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother,—I know it now too late;

I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;

But no nobler suitor sought me,—and he has taken wing.

And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother,—my head is throbbing sore,

And mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;

And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child,

Draw me a pot of beer, mother,—and, mother, draw it mild!

THE MAY QUEEN CORRECTED—May, 1879.

They must wrap and cloak me warmly, cloak me warmly mother dear,

For to-morrow is the iciest day of all the sad new year.

Of all the sad new year, mother, the snowiest, blowiest day,

And I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May.

Punch.

CARTED AWAY.

A Farewell Ode to the Brompton Boilers.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,

There's a work I wouldn't miss for worlds, a sight my heart does cheer:

Well, I know you'll not believe, mother, a word of what I say;

But they're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away.

There's many a black eye, of course, a moral one I mean,

Has been exchanged about them, for many a fight they've seen;

But no more need of cavil now, the fact's as plain as day,

They're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away.

Good taste had slept so sound, mother, I thought t'would never wake.

But the Press, at last, has given it a most decided shake;

Yes, at length it's up and doing, oh! and isn't Brompton gay

While they re carting its boilers away, mother, they're carting its boilers away!

As I came up from Knightsbridge whom think ye I should see,

But, Mr. Cole, my ancient friend, best known as our C.B.!

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday—

And he carted the boilers away, mother, he carted the boilers away.

You know it is his boast, mother, that in bricks all red and white,

He means to raise, on what appears an eligible ground site,

A palace for which Parliament will very gladly pay—

When the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are carted away.

The turnstile and refreshment rooms, umbrella man, and charts,

The chimney pots, paints, plaster casts, and analysed jam tarts,

Yes, all are gone! No longer art her triumphs can display,

For they've carted her boilers away, mother, they've carted her boilers away.

The cabs they come and go, mother, the omnibuses pass,

The public scarce believe their eyes; they think the thing a farce,

They'd got resigned to Brompton, thought its boilers meant to stay!

Yet they're carting those boilers away, mother, they're carting those boilers away.

South Kensington no more, mother, need fear to be despised,

The three most ugly things on earth, man ever yet devised,

No longer shall scare fashion off, and keep the world at bay;

Yes, the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are carted away.

So please call me very early—Oh! I mean it—mother dear,

For I wouldn't miss the sight for worlds, it's such a bright idea;

They're nearly done—a pole or two will go and then—hooray!

The boilers are carted away, mother, are carted for ever away!

The following appeared in The Referee, in 1882:—

"Chief Justice May has scandalously prejudged the Land League case, and in common decency he should not be allowed to try it. A fair trial is impossible after the partisanship which in the vilest possible taste this person has displayed. It is not the practice even now in Ireland to hang people first and try them afterwards, and May may congratulate himself upon having done the very worst thing in his power for the Government brief, which, sitting in judgment, he had the effrontery to flaunt in the face of the accused."

THE MAY OF THE QUEEN.

(The Land League Boy to his Mother).

You must wake and call me early; call me early, mother dear;

To-morrow will be the saddest time of Ireland's sad new year.

Of all this threat'ning year, mother, the blackest, foulest, day,

For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May.

There's many a black, black crime, mother, they charge against your lad;

There's Boycotting and murder, and everything that's bad;

And I'm bound to be convicted, though innocent, they say—

For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May.

You know I wasn't there, mother, when all the row was made;

I never made a wicked speech, or led a Land League raid;

But the judge has made up his mind to put your boy away—

For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May.

So wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,

For at ten o'clock, before the Court, I'm summoned to appear.

There's little chance of justice, he's a partisan they say—

This fierce and biassed judge, mother, this Lord Chief Justice May.

THE PLAY KING.

(Not included in Mr. Tennyson's New Volume).

You may take and bill me early, bill me early, HENRY dear;

I'm going to make the biggest hit of all the coming year;

Of all the coming year, HENRY, the safest spec to pay;

For I'm going to write you a play, HENRY, I'm going to write you a play.

There's lots of blank, blank verse, you know, but none so neat as mine;

There's GILBERT, and there's WILLS, and—well, some others in their line;

But none of them are Laureates, though clever in their way;

So I'm going to write you a play, HENRY, I'm going to write you a play.

'Twill be all right at night, HENRY, on that my name I'll stake:

I've got a good Egyptian plot, that's safe, I'm told, to take.

You're poisoned in a temple, Miss TERRY dies at bay—

I am writing you such a play, HENRY, I am writing you such a play.

As I came towards the theatre, whom think ye I should see,

But Messrs. HARE and KENDAL, looking sorrowful at me?

They were thinking of The Falcon I wrote but yesterday,

And they didn't ask me for a play, HENRY, they didn't ask me for a play.

I know your ghost draws well, HENRY, but don't be in a fright,

My forte isn't stage-effect: when I write plays, I write.

You'll have five pages at a time,—as much as you can say;

But a Poet is writing your play, HENRY, a Poet is writing your play.

Some critics tell me that my place is not behind the scenes;

That if I must descend I might stop short at magazines.

But as Queen Mary from the doors the money turned away,

You must long for another big play, HENRY, you must long for another big play.

For fads and fancies grow, HENRY, to wither like the grass,—

The latest, culture;—and for that, my name doth current pass.

So that's why, though I can't construct, and you feel all astray,

You've asked me to write you a play, HENRY, you've asked me to write you a play.

So take and bill me early, bill me early HENRY, dear;

I'm going to make the biggest hit of all the coming year;

Of all the coming year, HENRY:—and if it shouldn't pay:—

Still I shall have written your play, HENRY, I shall have written your play!

From Punch, December 4th, 1880.

These verses had reference to the announcement that the Poet Laureate was writing a tragedy to be produced at the Lyceum Theatre.—The Cup was indeed a greater success than most of Mr. Tennyson's previous dramatic productions, but it owed its popularity to splendid acting, and the magnificent mise-en-scene, far more than to its merits as a play, beautiful as it was as a poem.—It was produced on the 19th February, 1881.

In The Referee for December 2, 1882, the following parodies were published. It will be noticed that the first part imitates Cowper's John Gilpin, the second part Tennyson's May Queen, and the third part Campbell's Hohenlinden.

"I beg very humbly to submit a poem to the

Royal Family, the Bench, the Bar, and the

British public on the opening of the new Law

Courts."

A MEDLEY FOR MONDAY.

John Bulljohn was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

Of Volunteers a captain he

Of famous London town.

John Bulljohn's mother said, "My dear,

Though living here we've been

This goodness knows how long, yet we

Have never seen the Queen.

"To-morrow to the new Law Courts

Our sovereign does repair;"

Says John, "Good gracious! so she does—

Dear mother, we'll be there."

And ere he went to bed, J. B.

His aged ma did kiss;

And, feeling like a boy again,

Did softly warble this:

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear—

To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all this famous year;

Of all this famous year, mother, the grandest, jolliest day,

For look on our Queen we may, mother, look on our Queen we may.

There's many a loyal heart, they say, but none so true as mine,

There's Sandy and there's Dougal, across the Border line;

But none so true as Johnny, not e'en by Alum Bay,

So look on my Queen I may, mother, look on my Queen I may.

All the Strand, dear mother, 'll be gay with flag and green;

And they're selling seats in windows for gold to see the Queen;

O long shall Johnny remember the Law Courts' opening day,

When look on the Queen he may, mother, look on the Queen he may.

In London when the Queen was low,

Too sad at heart about to go,

Or in our streets her face to show

Did loyalty fade rapidly.

But London saw another sight

When she, our Liege, recovered quite,

Came, on a morning clear and bright,

Through arches, flags, and greenery.

To where the new Law Courts were made,

Attended by a cavalcade.

O, how the English crowd hoorayed!

And all was joy and revelry.

Then shook the sky with thunder riven,

For never heartier cheers were given,

As through the streets the Queen was driven,

Attended by her soldiery.

The longest and most important work (by many also considered the finest) of Alfred Tennyson is the collection of Arthurian Idyls, known as the Idyls of the King. These were originally published in detached parts, in somewhat irregular order, but in recent editions the Author has striven to arrange them in a consecutive and more connected form.

The first to appear in order of date was the Morte d'Arthur, which was published in the 1842 volume, in the later arrangement of the poems this has been absorbed into the last Idyl, entitled "The Passing of Arthur."

In the original it commenced thus:—

"So all day long the noise of battle roll'd

Among the mountains by the winter sea;

Until King Arthur's table, man by man,

Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord,

King Arthur; then because his wound was deep,

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,

A broken chancel with a broken cross,

That stood on a dark strait of barren land.

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one

Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

"The sequel of to-day unsolders all

The goodliest fellowship of famous knights

Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep

They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we

Shall never more, at any future time,

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,

Walking about the gardens and the halls

Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

I perish by this people which I made,—

Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again

To rule once more—but let what will be, be,

I am so deeply smitten through the helm

That without help I cannot last till morn.

Thou, therefore, take my brand Excalibur,

Which was my pride:

* * * * *

take Excalibur,

And fling him far into the middle mere:

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."

This mission was distasteful to Sir Bedivere, who exclaims:—

"And if indeed I cast the brand away,

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

What good should follow this, if this were done?

What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand

An act unprofitable against himself?

The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

What record, or what relic of my lord

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath

And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,

Some one might show it at a joust of arms,

Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur.'"

Thus much of the original must indeed be in one's thoughts ere the Voyage de Guillaume can be appreciated; it recounts the holiday trip of the Prime Minister to the north in September, 1883. It will be remembered that Mr. Gladstone was the guest of Sir Donald Currie, on board the Pembroke Castle, and that Alfred Tennyson was also one of the party.

VOYAGE DE GUILLAUME.—A FRAGMENT.

To the Editor of the St. James's Gazette.

SIR,—I have received the following lines from North Britain. Evidently it was not without reason that the Prime Minister was accompanied on his cruise by the Poet Laureate.—I am, Sir, your obedient servant, H. H.

* * *

—So all the year the noise of talk had roared

Before the Speaker's chair at Westminster,

Until King Guillaume's council, man by man

Were tired to death, as also was their Chief,

King Guillaume. Then, observing he was bored,

The bold Sir Donald C. invited him

(Sir Donald C., the last of all his knights)

And bore him off to Barrow by the sea—

Barrow-in-Furness, with a ruined church

That stood beside the melancholy waves.

Then spoke King Guillaume to Sir Donald C.:

"Next session will most probably upset

The goodliest Ministry of virtuous men

Whereof this world holds record. Not for long

Shall we contrive our schemes of policy,

Meeting within the offices and halls

Of Downing Street, as in the days that were.

I perish by these voters which I make—

Although Sir Andrew says that I may live

To rule once more; but let what will be, be.

He tells me that it is not good for me

To cut down oaks at Haw'rden, as before.

Thou, therefore, take my axe Exbrummagem,

Which was my pride—for thou rememberest how

The lustiest tree would fall beneath my strokes—

But now delay not; take Exbrummagem,

And fling him overboard when out at sea."

Then bold Sir Donald took Exbrummagem,

And went, and lighted his cigar, and thought:

"And if, indeed, I cast the axe away,

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

The King is cross, and knows not what he says.

What record, or what relic of my lord,

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath

Condensed in Hansard's books? But were this kept,

Preserved in some Mechanics' Institute,

It might be brought out by some lecturer,

Saying, 'King Guillaume's axe, Exbrummagem,

With which he cut down trees at Hawarden!'

So might he illustrate a stupid speech

To all the people, winning reverence."