"On the contrary, I think that Tennyson has often great beauties."
"If he sometimes wrote like an angel," pursued Fanny Euston, "I should find no patience to see it in a man who could put upon paper such parrot rhymes as these:—
| 'Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, With a lengthened loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o!' |
Bah! it puts one in a passion to hear such twaddle."
"I see," said her friend, "that nothing less than your own music will calm your indignation. Pray let us hear the ballad which you set to music this morning."
"I will sing, if you wish it; but not that ballad."
And she seated herself before the open piano.
"What do you choose, Mr. Morton?"
"The Marseillaise. That, I think, is in your vein."
"Ah! you can choose well!"