TIMBUCTOO.—PART I. (continued 2)
Reading edition
The two imitations of Maud, at pages 80 and 179, are too long, and scarcely sufficiently interesting, to quote at length.
The Shilling Book of Beauty, by Cuthbert Bede (J. Blackwood, 1853), has also a parody of Maud, in ten verses, it is entitled:—
MAUD IN THE GARDEN.
By Alfred Tennison, Esq.
She is coming, my own, my sweet; She is coming, my life, my fate; I hear the beat of her fairy feet, As she trips to the garden gate; As she comes to the garden gate, In her glimmer of satin and pearl, With her sunny head in a terrible state And her ringlets out of curl.
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, 1 And echo, there, if you ask how she is, replies, "I feel very unwell." * * * * 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! 11 Let him trample to dust, with a brutal foot, whatever remains of good or of pure! 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, 12 Declare that the sack of Odessa would be quite of a piece with his trade. 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; 13 Let Christian rise up against Christian, and brother take arms against brother! 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, 21 And justice bent down from her seat to give ear to the poor man's cause. 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 22 With Captain Disney's patent, or sacking the town of Kertch. 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; 29 He sits at home by his own snug hearth, and hears the storm howl without. 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, 37 Sipping their Seltzer and Hock, and smoking a mild cigar? 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, 38 And pleading for rapine and blood, whilst they lounge in their clubs at their ease! 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 41 To rivet with care on a beautiful land, the clutch of a barbarous race. 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, 46 The blood of the wretched serfs who fight for their Faith and their Czar.
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"