This critic, who left the theatre before the tragedy was half over, was, of course, eminently qualified to point out the shortcomings of Mr. Irving in the part of _Macbeth_, But perhaps the critic had forgotten that the leading character has one, or two, rather strong situations towards the end of the play, which he should have witnessed before condemning the actor. * * * * * THE BURIAL OF THE TITLE, "QUEEN." Not a cheer was heard, not a joyous note, As the Bill to the tellers we hurried; So solemn and dread is the midnight vote When a title has to be buried. We rolled up our sleeve and took off our coat, To make it a question burning; We strained every nerve to set it afloat, The hate of all Englishmen earning. They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul (There's much of it still adhering), And we knew by the distant and random growl That the foe was sullenly sneering. Oh, little we reck of the name that's fled (That Lowe's a most impudent monkey); For "Empreth" sounds sweetly when lispingly said By the lips of some courtly flunkey. 'Twas fondly imagined a title of might, Renowned in an ancient story; But we dug a deep hole and rammed it in tight, And left it alone in its glory! _The Figaro_, April 8, 1876. One of the arguments against Mr. Disraeli's Titles Bill, was that _Empress_ was likely altogether to supersede the older, and more constitutional, title of _Queen_. The lapse of but a few years has shown how groundless was this apprehension, for except in state documents or Daily Telegraph leaders, the title of Empress is never employed. * * * * * In November, 1879, _The Weekly Dispatch_ (a high-class London Liberal newspaper) commenced a series of Prize Competitions, the subjects, and methods of treatment, being indicated by the Prize Editor. On April 18, 1880, the prize of Two Guineas was for the best Poem on the Downfall of the Beaconsfield Government, in the form of a parody of "The Burial of Sir John Moore." It was awarded to Mr. D. Evans, 63, Talma Road, Brixton, S.E., for the following:-- (_From a Tory point of view._) Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note, As away from the House we all scurried-- Not a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot, The grave where our hopes were buried. We buried them sadly and deep that night, For we had no hope of returning, By Reason's bright returning light, And our hearts were sadly yearning. Few indeed were the words we said, But though few they were pregnant with sorrow, As we all in search of Benjamin fled To inspire us with hope for the morrow. No gaudy star was upon his breast, No ermine cloak was around him, Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest; And he smiled at us all, confound him!