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"More richly gifted, though to him denied Ev'n thine imperfect honors, Winthrop died;

Died-scarce a promise of his youth redeemed,

And never youth more bright in promise seemed.

appearance, therefore, shortly afterwards arms may have occurred between the as a member of the Conservative party two young politicians, both fresh from in the House of Commons, occasioned the Union, Sir Edward Lytton has in considerable surprise." Very natural, his fine poem, "St. Stephens," shown indeed, although his biographer assures that he could appreciate his opponent. us that the change was more apparent After characterizing Charles Buller, he than real. In a letter to a friend, dated | writes: January, 1831, Praed says: "I could not but smile to think of the face you will make when you read in the Court Journal that I am to be introduced to political life by the Duke of Wellington, or in the Age that I am pledged to vote against the Whigs. There is as much truth in one as in the other; none in either." To this statement we give the fullest credit, for Praed was eminently truthful; but it is clear that his choice of a party was a very easy matter, and that there was not in his character that deep seated instinct of partisanship which makes change of opinion impossible. He held his political creed with. an airy lightness, and was not very much graver in the House than in the saloon. The career of Lord Palmerston seems to show that with such a temperament Praed might have attained great success.

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Praed's Union speeches were, indeed, absolutely democratic, so that there was reason for some surprise when he joined the Tory ranks. A slight encounter between him and Mr. Bulwer (now Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton) has given rise to the absurd report that a duel between the two must have occurred but for the interference of the Speaker. A writer in the Pall Mall Gazette, some time since, mentioned the incident, stating that Praed actually left the House to send the challenge, and that his opponent was prevented from following him. The simple truth is, that Mr. Bulwer, merely in jest, referred to a Calves' Head Club which was said to have been held at Cambridge, to commemorate Charles I.'s execution, and of which Praed was a member. Praed's reply was dignified and temperate, and there was not any suggestion of a duel, nor even the slightest suspension of friendship between the two opponents. This we know on the highest authority; and the misstatements which have been made on the subject may be taken as curious examples of the way in which Myth is developed. But, whatever passages of

Granta beheld him with such loving eyes Lift the light lance that struck at every prize;

What the last news?-the medal Praed has won;

What the last joke ?-Praed's epigram or pun;

And every week that club-room, famous then,

Where striplings settled questions spoilt by men,

When grand Macaulay sat triumphant down,

Heard Praed's reply, and longed to halve the crown.'

Again, Praed was no scholar, in the more profound sense of the word. He was an exquisite Etonian classic. He could write Latin and Greek verse which was "the exact translation of the same style and diction which he wielded with hardly greater ease in his native language. The same sparkling antithesis, the same minute elaboration of fancy, whether employed in depicting natural or mental objects, and the same ever-present under-current of melancholy are found in both. Of a certain kind of Greek, adapted to the curious production called at Cambridge a Sapphic ode, and of a certain degree of Latin scholarship, competent to express all the ideas necessary to his verse, but not to sound the depths or exhaust the capacities of the language, he was master." But even in these trifles of the shallowest scholarship Praed was invariably poetical, and his epigrams have an unusual felicity. For example, in an epigram for 1824, on the theme "Scribimus indocti doctique," he made Daphnis entreat Apollo for guidance as to how he may obtain renown amid the mighty multitude of scribblers:

"Quid valeat tanta Daphnin secernere single stanza of this ode will show its

turba ?

Unde novo discat Daphnis honore frui ? Quid faciam ut propria decorem mea tempora lauru?

Dic mihi, quid faciam?' Dixit Apollo, 'Tace !'"

Lockhart the enthusiastic partisan, Thackeray the ironic bystander, Praed the professional politician, possessed in common the poetic element. They are typical men. There need be no questions of comparative greatness. The Lockhart class enjoys life most thoroughly and acts most vigorously, being impelled by faith-the great giver of vigor and of power. The Thackeray class is, fortunately, the rarest-fortunately, because only tolerable when the temperament is transfigured by genius. Even then, not always tolerable: who has not felt a shudder of disgust in reading some of the ablest scenes in which Thackeray played Asmodeus ? The Praed class is the surest of mundane success, being brilliant, polished, versatile, adaptable, devoid of that unpleasant quality which its owners call conviction and other people prejudice. If Praed had lived, he would have been among the most prosperous of modern politicians. Seven years older than Mr. Gladstone, he and the present Chancellor of the Exchequer became at the same time members of the first Peel Administration. It is intensely absurd to speculate on what might have been; but we may fairly suppose that a politician so brilliant and versatile as Praed would at this moment, had he lived, have been again a colleague of Mr. Gladstone's. Palmerston would assuredly have attracted a man in many respects so like himself. Praed would probably have been Attorney-General.

Our reference to Mr. Gladstone reminds us that he also is the possessor of a strong poetic element. Our own knowledge of his literary achievement is confined to his criticisms on Homer and his translations, but these suffice to show that the impulse is strong in him. His rendering of the first book of the Iliad has already received ample notice at our hands; but his most successful translation is of Manzoni's fine ode on the death of Napoleon. He has caught the spirit of the Italian poet, and transferred it to English with marvellous felicity.

beauty:

"How often, as the listless day
In silence died away,

He stood with lightning eye deprest,
And arms across his breast,
And bygone years, in rushing train,
Smote on his soul amain:

The breezy tents he seemed to see,
And the battering cannon's course,
And the flashing of the infantry,

And the torrent of the horse,
And, obeyed as soon as heard,
Th'ecstatic word."

We suspect Mr. Gladstone of considerable capacity for vers de société ; but as we have not as yet caught him in a playful moment, can only suspect. The most serious and severe statesmen have at intervals shown a poetic tendency. William Pitt wrote the last (and most humorous) stanza of that famous song in the Anti-Jacobin, about

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there was nothing unexpected about it. But the vein of poetic humor runs through the very hardest mental marble, and a collection of vers de société by eminent living statesmen would probably amaze the public by its variety and vigor. Could not the Ministry and Opposition for once combine to give the world such a volume? It might be styled "Rhymes of the Recess," and the Earl of Derby would make a capital editor for it. We should be especially anxious to see Earl Russell's contributions.

A Of recent verse belonging to the school

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of Praed we have noticed a few fair cimens in a curious periodical called the Owl. This journal came into existence a couple of years ago, and astonished Londoners by jestingly announcing things which actually occurred, and by a very serious style of jocosity. Its contributors combined a good deal of recondite, political, and fashionable information, with a pleasant vein of the poetry of society. These verses, on the marriage of Lady Palmerston's granddaughter, are quite in the best style of the school of Praed:

"Oh had I but the perfect skill

Of that delicious Roman metrist Whose music makes immortal still

The sparrow upon Lesbia's sweet wristHad I melodious Spenser's power,

Or subtile Shelley's, then right gayly,
Fair Maiden, in this joyous hour,
I'd sing thy Carmen Nuptiale.

"A song divine for one so sweet,

Of fairest mother fairer daughter,

As Aphrodite's self complete,

"And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your algebra and Greek, Perfect are;

And that loving, lustrous eye
Recognizes in the sky
Every star.

"You have pouting, piquant lips,
You can doubtless an eclipse
Calculate;

But for your coerulean hue,
I had certainly from you
Met my fate.

"If by an arrangement dual
I were Adams mixed with Whewell,
Then some day

I, as wooer, perhaps might come
To so sweet an Artium

Magistra."

It would be difficult to find more exquisite touches of poetic epigram than the "points" with which the first two stanzas of this trifle terminate. The fair Chloe is identified with "goodness " by the first, while the second suggests a delightful double recognition of the stars

When rising from the bright blue water, by her charming eyes. It is the very

In those old days of mirth and myth,

When goddesses with mortal maidens Mingling unknown, serenely blithe, Sang softly to the cithern's cadence.

"And she, thy mother's mother, who

effervescence, the champagne foam of verse. Shall we ask, with the mathematician who had just been reading Paradise Lost-"What does it prove ?" Doubtless it is quite worth while. And the reply is, that when those who are encruel-gaged in the serious business of life make

Finds in thy joyous face renewal Of those old days which swiftly flew O'er the glad earth, ere time grew She, wise and kind, a queen of life, Who the fair world of London leadeth, Sees thee a happy loving wife, And softly whispers, Good-by, Edith.'

"Sweet lady, be thy honeymoon

Its silver brightness always crescent : Sweet in thy ear be Love's gay tuneMusic immortal and incessant. Filled be thy life with that serene Delight which from true love proceedeth, Till the far future crowns thee queen Of all thy sisters, lovely Edith." This is as pretty a bit of poetic compliment as could easily be found. We may supplement it from the same source with a bit of poetic "chaff" addressed to those young ladies of the day who pro fess scholarship. It is written It is written Chloen, M.A.”

"Lady, very fair are you,

And your eyes are very blue,
And your hose;

And your brow is like the snow,
And the various things you know
Goodness knows.

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leisure for poetic fantasy, they will do their weightier work with ease. Few men of affairs work harder than Mr. Gladstone, and he found it a relief amid financial toil to translate Homer. It is When the the thorough-bred temper.

hunter that goes well across country three days a week throws up his heels in his paddock during intervals of rest, you may be sure there is good blood in him. Nor is this all. The occasional verses of a politician are generally humorous, and humor is a great preservative against absurdity, and prevents the weary monotony of hard work from becoming intolerable. The living humor which charhis fatigue and saved him from maintainacterized Lord Palmerston mitigated ing any attitude that could be ridiculed. It is unfortunate for Mr. Disraeli that, although a master of witty dialogue and of epigrammatic invective, he has no sense of humor. This, apart from all other disqualifications, would render it difficult for him to occupy the position

therefore, seldom rise above a certain elegant tenderness and easy grace; there is no passion in them. But we have already seen that his poetry was of the surface the play of a lively and joyous fancy- the phosphorescence of an Italian summer sea.

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to which he aspires. A humorous faculty an entirely ruinous process. They, would have prevented him from writing "Alroy" and "Contarini Fleming" from talking in an oracular way of "the Asian mystery" and the "Čaucasian race" from transforming Rothschild into Sidonia from fraternizing with young England," and writing a brilliant novel as the manifesto of the party of maypoles and white waistcoats. He has placed himself, with unlucky frequency, in a situation to be laughed at. This is fatal to an English politician. It is easy to see that, if Praed had lived, his humor would have been of infinite service to him. He sees the Speaker asleep amid a debate in the first reformed Parliament, and writes in this style

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Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
Hume will, no doubt, be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen
pence;

Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may !"

Of course he was an opponent of the
Reform bill, but there is no touch of
bitterness in this "chaff." Here, again,
is humor of value. It mitigates the
fierceness of political conflict. It gives
the defeated combatant a mild revenge.
It withholds from him the temptation to
say some of those stinging, lacerating
things which are never forgotten. If he
can laugh good-temperedly, all is well.
In a country where progress is always
the result of a series of conflicts, this is
inestimably important.

There are some lines in which Mr. Locker and other imitators of Praed have not ventured to follow him. Although, as we have remarked, he had no high and spontaneous lyrical faculty, he could write a particularly pretty song. A good many people have heard the following simple and musical stanza without any suspicion of its author:

"I was merry-I was merry

When my little lovers came,
With a lily, or a cherry,

Or a new invented game;
Now I've you, love-now I've you, love,
To kneel before me there;

But you know you're not so true, love,
As childhood's lovers were."

All Praed's songs read as if they were
written to the music, which is of course

The charade was another minor mode
of composition in which he attained rare
excellence, and has had no followers.
He had a remarkable capacity for mak-
ing his puzzle also a poem. The follow-
ing, which involves a graceful compli-
ment to a lyrical poet of the time, reads
like anything but a mere riddle:
"Come from my First, ay, come;
The battle dawn is nigh;
And the screaming trump and the thun-
dering drum

Are calling thee to die;
Fight, as thy father fought;
Fall, as thy father fell;

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is
wrought-

So, forward! and farewell!

"Toll ye my Second, toll;

Fling high the flambeau's light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night;

The helm upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed:

Now take him to his rest!

"Call ye my Whole, go, call

The Lord of lute and lay,
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day :
Ay, call him by his name;

No fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave."
The author of "Hohenlinden " himself

could hardly have written more resonant
stanzas. But the most epigrammatic
and elegant of Praed's charades is one
that we had not seen till published in
the English edition of his poems:

"He who can make my first to roll,
When not a breath is blowing,
May very slightly turn my Whole
To set a mountain going.

"He who can curb my Second's will

When she's inclined for loving,
May turn my Whole more slightly still
To cure the moon of moving!"
This polished enigmatic gem may be left

to any lady of the race of Edipus who deigns to read our criticism. It shows that even so trivial a thing as a charade may be a work of art.

After all, the vein of Praed and of his closest followers is rather the voice of brilliant boyhood than of poetry in its prime. Its fountain was Eton: the epoch of its rise was one of singular brilliance in politics and literature. Two mighty meteors, Byron and Canning, shone in the sky, charming and haunting the excitable imaginations of youth, less easily stimulated by the calmer radiance of the steadfast stars of thought. Canning and Frere at an earlier, Gladstone and Arthur Hallam at a later date, felt a similar literary impulse, but were far less successful than the youthful group of whom Praed, Moultrie, Nelson Coleridge, Sydney Walker, were the prominent figures. Marvellous boys all of them. Walker once turned a page of the Court Guide into Greek verse, to the amazement of Sir James Mackintosh; and the Rev. E. Coleridge told the Royal Commissioners that he could repeat by heart the whole of Homer, Horace, and Virgil, and that "he could be called up in school, having an English Shakespeare in his hand [instead of the proper book], and take up a lesson anywhere that it might be going on; he could construe a passage expression by expression, parse it word by word, answer any question that was asked him, and afterwards sit down to his Shakespeare." When Moultrie's poem "Godiva," published in No. II. of the "Etonian," was read to Gifford, at that time editor of the Quarterly Review, he remarked "If that young Moultrie writes prose as well as he writes poetry, I should be glad to hear from him." Moultrie was the "Gerard Montgomery" of the Etonian, and had previously contributed to two less known Magazines; and while his serious verse drew from Dr. Hawtrey the remark that it "possessed the pathos of Wordsworth without his puerility," he wrote the octave rhyme of "Whistlecraft" and "Beppo" with no less ease than Frere and Byron themselves. Here is a capital stanza from a schoolboy's pen:

"I own, to me it seems extremely funny How clever people who delight in learn ing

Can waste their time, their patience, and their money,

The leaves of those dull commentators turning.

Oh, when I read the pages bright and sunny
Of the old Greeks, it sets my heart a-
burning!

I much prefer Euripides to Monck,
Homer to Bentley, Sophocles to Brunck."

The stanzas on waltzing in "Godiva " are extremely humorous and easy, while there is much power in the following description of the grim Earl's wife, disarrayed in her inmost bower:

"And when her white and radiant limbs lay bare,

The fillet from her brow the dame un-
bound,

And let the tresses of her raven hair
Flow down in wavy lightness to the

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Till half they veiled her limbs and bosom. fair,

In dark and shadowy beauty floating

As clouds, in the still firmament of June, Shade the pale splenders of the midnight

"But then her spirit fell when thus alone

She stood in the deep silence of her

And felt that there she was beheld by

Save one unknown, supreme, eternal

She dared not raise her meek eyes, trembling one,

Again from earth; she could have wished

Rather in view of thousands to have stood, That in that still and awful solitude."

Mr. Tennyson has "distilled" the imagery of the first stanza, reproducing it in the "rippled ringlets" and "summer moon" of his poem on the same theme; but he has wisely refrained from borrowing the fine thought of Godiva's awestricken hesitation in the solitude of her own chamber.

There are few things more melancholy than to look back across almost half a century to such a brilliant youthful group as this of which Praed was the centre, and to see how slight was the effect produced by its ablest and most vigorous members-how transient a ripple was left on the mighty river of time. Of a truth:

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