THE TRUE TENNYSON.
We have all been startled to find from the researches of Mr. WOODALL in Notes and Queries, that "Between the story sung by the Poet Laureate in his romantic poem The Lord of Burleigh, and the actual fact, there seems to be little in common." HENRY CECIL, Earl and afterwards Marquis of EXETER, married Miss SARAH HOGGINS under the name of JOHN JONES, having a wife alive at the time, and she did not die as the poem relates. It is obvious then that TENNYSON must be re-written, and we offer his Lordship the following humble suggestions. The Lord of Burleigh should henceforward run somewhat as follows:—
Quoth he, "Gentle SARAH HOGGINS,"
Speaking in seductive tones,
"You must wed no HODGE or SCROGGINS,
But espouse your own J. JONES."
Oh! he was an artful party,
And that marriage was a crime.
He'd a wife alive and hearty,
Though she'd left him for a time.
The above discovery has, of course, led to doubts regarding other Tennysonian heroines. Was Lady CLARA VERE DE VERE, for example, as black as the poet has painted her? Perish the thought! Here are a couple of specimen stanzas for an amended version:—
Lady CLARA VERE DE VERE,
I vow that you were not a flirt,
The daughter of a hundred Earls
Would not a single creature hurt.
"Kind hearts are more than coronets,"
What abject twaddle, on my word;
And then the joke is in the end,—
We know they made the bard a Lord.
The tale of how young LAURENCE died,
In some audacious print began;
The fact is that he took to drink,
He always was that sort of man.
And as for ALFRED, why, of course
You snubbed him; but was that a crime,
That he should go and call you names,
And print his atrabilious rhyme?
Then, again, was the Amy of Locksley Hall quite as shallow-hearted and so forth as the angry rhymester declares? It will probably turn out that she was not. Hence the verses should run in this fashion:—
And I said, "My Cousin AMY, speak the truth, my heart to ease.
Shall it be by banns or license?" And she whispered, "Which you please."
Love took up the glass of Time and waved it gaily in the air,
Married life was sweet at Number Twenty-Six in Camden Square.
AMY faithless! Bless your heart, Sir, that was not the case at all:
It was pure imagination that I wrote in Locksley Hall.
This process will doubtless have to be applied to many of the poems, but we must leave the congenial task to the Laureate.
George (about to enjoy the first new-laid Egg from the recently set-up Fowl-house). "WHY—CONF—THEY'VE BOILED THE PORCELAIN NEST-EGG!"