No one can write verse but a sixth form prepostor.
The frog in the fable; we know what that means,
A priggish, impertinent usher in teens.’
When we were both called to the Bar, Anson and I went the old Home Circuit and the Kent Sessions together for some years and during the Assize fortnight at Croydon, where in those days important London causes were tried and the provincial town was full of big merchants and City solicitors, we were more than once guests of the Daniells at Fairchilds, their beautiful country place outside the town. John Daniell, our host, was married to Katherine Bradshaw, a cousin of my mother, who still retained much of the beauty and charm which earlier had inspired some characteristic lines of Tennyson; I may be pardoned for quoting them, as I do not think they have ever yet found their way into print:
‘Because she bore the iron name
Of him who doomed the King to die,
I dreamt her one of stately frame
With look to awe the passer-by,
But found a maiden tender, shy,
With soft blue eyes and winning, sweet,