When Macaulay was created a baron, it was practically a life peerage, as he was unmarried and unlikely to marry, _Punch_ had some verses congratulating him on the event, and referring to Mr. Baron Parke, who, in 1856, had been raised to the peerage as Lord Wensleydale, with the usual succession to his heirs male, who did not exist, and never came into being. HOW TITUS MANLIUS MACAULEIUS WAS MADE A PATRICIAN. The Consul Palmerstonius Hath ta’en down his DEBRETT, And o’er its storied pages His anxious brow is set. Those are not age’s wrinkles The Consul’s cheek that plough, It is not time that sprinkles That snow upon his brow. The Consul closed the volume―― He closed it with a bang! And he seized his slate and pencil From the wall where they did hang; And straight he set to ciphering, And out a sum he brought; And his sum was of six figures, And it ended with a nought. So the united ages Of the Patricians stood, When Consul Palmerstonius Vowed they must have new blood. What though your _novi homines_ Do not always wax in wit; Oft _Patricius_, like _Poeta_, Proves “_nascitur non fit_.” “Besides, as after physic The matron gives her child A crust of blandest honey, To make the bitter mild; So I, for the Patricians, A pleasant peer must find, To take away the savour Wens’dalius left behind. “_Patres majorum gentium_, _Patres minorum_, too, Your seats upon those benches To sources strange are due: The fruit of royal bye-blows, The growths of courtier-slime The brawny sons of rapine, The heirs of reckless crime. “The sword hath dibbled often Holes for patrician seed; And many a lawyer’s tongue hath licked All shoes, and oft unfee’d, No stooping found too lowly, No crawling thought too mean, If but a Conscript Father He might at last be seen. “I’ll raise to the Patricians, One who ne’er wore steel, nor lied, Whose weapon was his goose-quill, Whose pleadings were world-wide; Whose foes were Falsehood, Prejudice, Fraud, Sophistry, and Wrong―― With which he held wit-combat, Wit-combat, brave and long! “So, when that Palmerstonius Hath gone where all must go―― E’en those whose brains glow fiery ’Neath coronals of snow: Write by the Appian way-side, On the tomb where he is laid, ‘Of Manlius Macauleius He a Patrician made.’” (_Four verses omitted._) _Punch._ September 19, 1857. ―――― THE BATTLE OF LAKE GLENLIVIT. _By the Author of “The Lays of Ancient Rum.”_ It was a song of sorrow, Blent with a solemn vow, Floated across the lovely lake, And up the mountain’s brow. Glenlivit! O, Glenlivit! No wonder that we grieve; Glenlivit! O, Glenlivit! Why should we ever leave?