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.

[Illustration:  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!”]

This process will doubtless have to be applied to many of the poems, but we must leave the congenial task to the Laureate.

* * * * *

A SONNET OF VAIN DESIRE.

AFTER THE HOLIDAYS.

  As when th’ industrious windmill vainly yearns
    To pause, and scratch its swallow-haunted head,
  Yet at the wind’s relentless urging turns
    Its flying arms in wild appeal outspread;
  So am I vex’d by vain desire, that burns
    These barren places whence the hair hath fled,
  To wander far amid the woodland ferns,
    Where dewdrops shine along the gossamer thread;
  Where its own sunlight on the reddening leaf
    Sleeps, when soft mists have swathed the sunless tree,

  Or where the innumerous billows merrily dance;
  Yet must I busily dissemble grief
  Whirl’d in the pitiless round of circumstance,
    Rigid with trained respectability.