Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

of precedence runs thus: Robe, gown, pan- | of society; and neither are conferred for sertaloon, breeches. Robe is sublime, and may vices of a very eminent kind. The kind be used in epic poetry. Gown, that is to say, of merit which procures a pair of breeches an academical gown, is sufficiently staid and for an agricultural laborer is very much dignified to be mentioned in high-flying prose. the same kind of merit as that which usuPantaloons never find their way into any ally procures the garter for a peer. It concomposition superior to a comedy or a novel; sists chiefly in having kept himself out and breeches are usually buried altogether of mischief, and having got together more under some euphemism. The rural mag- money than his neighbors. Yet how differnates who preside over Agricultural Societies ent is the grandeur of the two words! Perhave fallen into great trouble from ignoring haps, however, that is a mere question of the Pariah character of this last word. No class. Very possibly the breeches are looked small part of the ridicule to which they have been exposed for prizes given to agricultural laborers has arisen from the fact of one of those prizes being a pair of breeches. The word is down in the world; it is an unlucky word, and will bring ridicule on any one who uses it. The different fate which attends kindred words might furnish matter of reflection to the moralist. There is nothing intrinsically more exalted in a garter than in a pair of breeches. Both are articles of dress appertaining to the legs; both are conferred as rewards, only upon different classes

on with as much reverence among the agricultural laborers as the garter is among us; and the whispered announcement, "Jim Hodges is to have the breeches," excites a thrill of interest as keen as the rumor that "the Duke of is to have the vacant garter" does in Belgravia. Still, as there is no touching tale of the loves of a gallant sovereign to protect and apologize for the agricultural decoration, perhaps a waistcoat, or a pair of strong boots, would be better. When mankind have resolved that anything shall be prosaic, they will have their way.

[blocks in formation]

"After the city of Alhambra was taken from the Moors, the veteran Count de Tendilla was left governor, and we were informed that this cavalier at one time was destitute of gold and silver wherewith to pay the wages of his troops, and the soldiers murmured greatly, seeing that they had not the means of purchasing necessities from the people of the towns.

"In this dilemma what does this most sagacious commander? He takes him a number of little morsels of paper, on which he inscribes various sums, large and small, according to the nature of the case, and signs them with his own hand, and these did he give to the soldiery in earnest of their pay. How, you will say, are soldiers to be paid with scraps of paper? Even so, I answer, and well paid too, as I will pres"ently make manifest; for the good count issued a proclamation ordering the inhabitants of Alhambra to take these morsels of paper for the full amount thereon inscribed, promising to redeem them at a future time with silver and gold, and threatening severe punishment on all who should refuse.

"The people having full confidence in his LIVING AGE. 945

THIRD SERIES.

words, and trusting that he would be as willing to perform the one promise as he certainly was able to perform the other, took these curious Thus by a subtle and most mysterious kind of morsels of paper without hesitation or demur. alchemy did this cavalier turn a useless paper into precious gold, and make his impoverished garrison abound in money. It is but just to add that the Count of Tendilla redeemed his promise like a loyal knight; and this miracle, as it appeared in the eyes of Antonio Agrepieda, is the first instance on record in Europe of paper money, which has since inundated the civi lized world with unbounded opulence."

DEATH OF ADAM THE BATTLE-PAINTER.Albrecht Adam, the German battle-painter and the Nestor of Munich artists, is just dead, at the age of seventy-six. He began life, like Claude, as a pastry-cook's apprentice; and after quitting that profession, passed through stirring scenes, and saw a good deal of the life of camps. He went through the campaign in Russia as far as the burning of Moscow, in the suite of Eugène Beauharnais, and the Austrian campaign. Two of his large battle-pieces, "Novara" and "Custozza," are in the new Pinacothek in Munich; and a third, "Zorndorf" was finished shortly before his death for the Maximilianeum.

From The Saturday Review.
ROBERT STORY.*

Cheviot-side he was invited, welcomed, fêted, and caressed, by duke, by mill-owner, by bagman, by tapster, and by peasant. No man, perhaps also, has ever made so much real hard cash by publication of poems by subscription. His canvassing tours for names were invariably successes, though not, of course, equally remunerative in all cases. On one occasion

"The subscription-list did not fill as he expected; but the late Miss Currer, the amiable proprietor of Eshton Hall, and a true friend of literary merit, to whom he had dedicated the work, somewhat made up the deficiency by presenting him with twenty pounds.'

[ocr errors]

On the publication of his longest poem, Guthrum the Dane, his biographer remarks:

A MAN who has been successively, or simultaneously, a shepherd, plowman, private tutor, schoolmaster, fiddler, newspaper contributor and editor, rate collector, parish clerk, and Civil Servant in Somerset House, and all along a poet, besides trying once to be a sailor, must, on the whole, be something extraordinary, and his biography cannot fail to have the interest of abrupt transitions and sudden surprises. Such was Robert Story. When we add to this large variety of the external phases of human existence, the intrinsic qualities of a fond and feeling heart, a social and genial temperament, and a firm bottom of religious principle unalloyed by cant or extravagance, and tested by many severe crises of financial distress and domestic bereavement, we must be allowed to have "He dedicated it, at my suggestion, to his before us a man worthy of mark while living, stanch friend, Miss Reaney of Bradford, and of memory when dead. A passing now Mrs. Thornton, who (in this and many trance of Deism in the dreamily eager period other instances) proved that she was the of his intellectual development, and a youth-worthy patroness of a worthy poet by subful sin of incontinence which charged his scribing for eighty copies." later life with embarrassment, are all the inconsistencies with his better self which a candid examination of Story's biography reveals. No doubt the examples of imprudence, in several rash steps which he took in quest of fame, or livelihood, or mere vicissitude of task and scene, are a proper complement of his sanguine and uncalculating character. Throughout his shiftful life a man of small means but many friends, Story seems always to have found the amicus certus a substantial resource amidst the res incerta. If he was not backward to claim assistance, he found the wide circle who loved and admired him even more ready to respond to his cry of distress, or to relieve it unsolic-orate to the lighter and more fugitive pieces ited, than he was to invoke their aid. The fact that only in a few fitful flashes did his fame emerge from the mezzotint of provincial celebrity, is really to be set down among the substantial successes of his career. Perhaps no man ever went so far in reversing the adage of the "prophet" in "his own country." In London, he was a mere jovial, somewhat thriftless, Civil Service clerk, with a scanty inner circle of warm bosom friends. In all the land from the Humber to the

[ocr errors]

Again, when towards the close of his life he projected a collected edition of his works, and invoked the patronage of the Duke of Northumberland, that nobleman

The

"not only gave permission for the volume
to be dedicated to him, but suggested that
it should be adorned at his expense, in
a manner befitting the contents.
work was printed in colors, by Messrs. Pigg
of Newcastle, and in a style of beauty and
magnificence which I do not remember to
have seen equalled by the provincial press.
The mere expense of adorning the work
cost his Grace five hundred pounds."

To turn from the more bulky and elab

of the volume now before us, these latter are the genuine effusions of the man in the mood of the moment. They consist of artless raptures evoked by the presence of the hills, streams, woodlands, birds, breezes, and wild-flowers of the poet's native scenery, or by the remembrance of the same, stirred up amid the contrast of other scenes. There are also addresses to friends on all occasions -the marriage-bell, the mourning, the parting, the meeting again, the festive-board, the reminiscences of the dead. These are inter

The Lyrical and Minor Poems of Robert Story, with a Sketch of his Life and Writings. By spersed with occasional patriotic outbursts John James, F.S.A. London: Longman & Co. to the " Altar," the "Throne," the "old

war-flag," the "ancient barons,"" our Saxon fathers," "the wives and the mothers of Britain," and come down to the period when "Sebastopol " was "low." In all these our poet rather rings the changes pleasantly on a sweet peal of village bells than yields the broad swell and full deep compass which mark the higher masters of the lyric art. In the manner, too, there is sometimes a bare escape-even if an escape-from a somewhat bald and prosaic form of expression, and an occasional dip into the penny-a-liner's empty-bottle style, which makes us remember the provincial journalist in the poet. Still, with a few such exceptions, though he flies low, like a swallow skimming summer meads and streams, he is undeniably on the wing, and hardly ever drops into a sermo pedestris ; and, though he chases the bee and butterfly, his movements are lively and varied, his flight nimble, and his turns of thought, if obvious, yet graceful. Though called the "Burns of Beaumont Side," he will remind every reader far more of Moore than of Burns. He lacks, indeed, the exquisite polish and finish of the Irish songster, and the perfect execution in rendering the thought to the ear, yet he has more of the genuine charm of sincerity, and a purer rustic grace of nature and truth. A few of Burns's lighter verses might be fairly compared with his. Yet, taking "Ye banks and braes a specimen of Burns in the mood of a simple nature-worshipper-in which Story, on the whole, shines most fairly and frequently

as

-there is something quaint and exquisite in the earlier poet's simple contrast of the things without and the thoughts within the mind, which passes far beyond the superficial assonance with nature to be found in Story's endless variations on his loved Roddam, Craven, Howsden, Cheviot, and Homil-Heugh. Yet we mark the contrast in no spirit of depreciation; but rather to indicate the standard up to which our author comes more effectively, if negatively, by showing that of which he falls short.

The following, probably, treads more closely on the heels of Burns than anything in the volume. The bard, revisiting, as usual, the hills of his youth, relieves his feelings in rhyme, which turns on a flower, bonnie pink," he had thought of plucking; but a second and "tenderer" thought checked his hand :

66

a

[ocr errors]

"For wha kens,' pled the thought, but this bonnic flower bloomin'

May have some kin' o' feelin' or sense of its ain?

It'll change wi' the lift, be it smilin' or gloomin' Exult in the sunshine, an' droop in the rain. "An' wha kens that it has na some pleasure in gi'ein'

Its bloom to the e'e an' its sweets to the day? That it has na a secret an' sweet sense o' bein'? So I left it to bloom on its ain native brae!" in the next stanza-the more forcibly, we The poet then proceeds to point the moral grieve to remember, as it had been the very lesson which he himself in youth forgot. The "bonnie pink " is a "bonnie lass,” and

the finder is admonished"Then if he can mak' her a wife, let him tak' her,

An' bear her in joy an' in triumph away! But oh! if he canna-beguile her he manna, But leave her to bloom on her own native brae! "

To say that a lyrist may be compared at once with Moore and with Burns, even though we necessarily apply each comparison with limitation, is of itself no mean praise. There is a wide range of points on The powerful, homely vigor which drives which no poet can be matched with Burns. deep the thought with a stroke, the native edge of mind that hews Scotch granite whilst others are scratching in alabaster, were the Muse's gift to him. While others, Story for example, gently tickle, Burns pokes his finger into your ribs right home send up lively jets of sentiment, Burns unupon Where others the laughing nerve. sluices his great waters of pathos. Yet in Story, too, when plaintively roused, we feel that it is a human heart pleading artlessly the bitterness of loss in those we love, or the desolating contrast in the promises of hope broken by time. Three sets of brief

and tender verses, in which he mourns the deaths of three children within two years, in pages 143, 145, 148–9, are fair samples. We will quote one or two stanzas, which may bear comparison with average specimens of Hood:

"We often laughed at Fanny,

But we loved her while we laughed;
She was so odd a mixture

Of simplicity and craft.

Whate'er she thought she uttered,

And her words-she "reckoned nou't"
Of the fine flash talk of London-

She was Yorkshire out and out!

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

Sleep, my Mary! Sleep, my Mary!
Dream not thou art left alone;
Listen, Mary! Listen, Mary!

Well was once my footstep known!
Hush! that sob was much too loud;
Glad am I the grave is deep!
It would pain her in her shroud,

Could she hear her father weep!"
Here is a lighter specimen of thought
struck out by the damp of a new house;
but the bard-audacious trifler-is playing
with edge tools :—

"The walls yet sparkle to my lamp

May Heaven protect us from the damp!
But if it must destroy one life,
Suppose, just now, it take my wife.
Well, free again, I chat and rove
With beauty in the moonlight grove,
Till my heart dances to the tune
Sweet of a second honeymoon.

'Tis a most pleasant thought!-But stay!
Suppose it just the other way;
Suppose it spares my loving wife,

66

he was burnt "in effigy" out of the little town of Gargrave, near Skipton, where he had for some time had a thriving school. He lost thereby his clerkship of the parish, and threw himself for a livelihood yet deeper into the same troubled stream, becoming editor of the Carlisle Patriot, for which town Sir James Graham was then the Conservative candidate, in whose behalf he wrote vigorous leaders," and who promised permanent assistance, perhaps on the chance of success, but who, it seems, on losing the election, straightway forgot his humble backer, and Story returned to the schoolroom once more, but not for long. On a registration objection, he was struck off the list of voters by the influence of the hostile faction, and being resolved to retain the sweet pleasure, at all hazards, of "plumping" for the Conservative candidate, made a rash investment in cottage property, which enabled his creditors to bring him to great temporary straits. He returned, on his school dwindling through his political zeal, to Gargrave again for a short while, and was soon after appointed a "supernumerary," as he too late discovered, in the audit office, through the instrumentality of the late Sir

Robert Peel.

The rest of his tale is soon told. He removed on this to London, where scanty means, a precarious appointment, a sickly family, and several unhealthy abodes in succession soon brought him sore trials. His friends, however, rallied to his support, and his clerkship was made permanent, and in a few years his salary increased. Placed for the first time beyond the shifts and straits of want, his health soon began to fail. He contracted a heart-complaint, which was supposed almost to the last to be but a temporary And drives the team I drive at present, ailment, and was cut short while yet apparBy Jove! this thought is not so pleasant." ently in the prime of his powers. He cherThe troubled political waters of the pe- ished to the last his love of friends and of riod immediately before and after the pass- the muse, and was solaced in his final sicking of the Reform Bill colored Story's ex-ness by the kindness of the Duke of Northistence deeply, and brought out his heart umberland. But the candle of life burnt sudwarmly on the Conservative side. His par- denly out, and a widow and several children tisan warmth was such as to kindle for him are left to hang with trembling hopes on the the fires of representative martyrdom, and profits of this and his other works.

And takes her loving husband's life;
And further, that another swain
Assumes the matrimonial rein,

From Punch.

THE NAGGLETONS OUT.

A SEA-SIDE DRAMA.

The Scene represents the Breakfast-Table at
Mr. and Mrs. Naggleton's lodgings at a
Watering-Place. The distinguished couple
at breakfast.

Mr. Naggleton (who is justifiably cross, because he went out late to buy a "Times" and all the copies had been sold to unknown persons, whom he therefore hates). What bad tea!

Mrs. N. There's coffee.
Mr. N. That's worse.

Mrs. N. It was not my fault that water didn't boil, I suppose.

Mr. N. No. But I suppose it was your fault for using water that didn't boil.

Mrs. N. Do you want to have a fire in the parlor with the thermometer at 70° ? or do you wish your wife to go down into the kitchen of a lodging-house, and heat the kettle?

Mr. N. Nor I; nor why they should make other people so.

Mrs. N. Well, as you are in a sweet humor, I shall take my novel and go down to the beach and read, and perhaps you'll be in a happier frame of mind by lunch-time.

Mr. N. When a novel-fit is on you, it is useless for me to expect any attention. If you imitated some of the perfection you are so fond of reading about, it might not be amiss.

Mrs. N. Very neat, dear, and very new, and very much calculated to make an impression.

Mr. N. (who is, somehow, getting the worst of it, and is aware of the fact). Of course. Any scribbler's sentiments have more weight with you than your husband's.

Mrs. N. Well, dear, I am not unreasona

ble. I do not ask you for sentiments. Sentiment at your time of life would be about as suitable to you as leap-frog.

Mr. N. (in despair, castles). Pray don't

Mr. N. I only wish to have decent tea or let that anchovy paste come up any more— coffee. it is not fit to be upon the table.

Mrs. N. You have managed to drink both such as they are; so if I were you I would say no more about it.

Mrs. N. You bought it yourself.

Mr. N. Because I could get nothing else provided for me. I shall throw it out of the

Mr. N. I am much obliged for your ad-window if I see it again. vice, and should be more obliged if you would condescend to attend to what I believe is a woman's department.

Mrs. N. If you had gone to an hotel, you could have had all the luxuries, the want of which makes you so amiable.

Mr. N. I didn't choose to go to an hotel. Mrs. N. Then you must take things as you find them.

Mrs. N. Pray do, or commit any other act of boyish impatience. I suppose you conduct yourself in that ridiculous way in the hope of seeming younger than you are.

Mr. N. (thinks he sees an opening). No, my dear. I have given sufficient proof, in the later part of my life, of not being as wise as I ought to be, considering.

Mrs. N. (carelessly). Have you, love? Mr. N. I have had good breakfasts at Never mind. It's too late for regrets now. the sea-side in other days. But (arrested in the midst of her victory, and angrily) it's too early to begin smoking that abominable pipe.

Mrs. N. I am happy to hear it. That makes it all the fairer that you should sometimes put up with bad ones. Not that the breakfast has been bad to-day, only your temper.

Mr. N. (availing himself of the enemy's indiscretion). I observe, my dear, that the names of things vary with the temper of the

Mr. N. I say it has been bad. The speakers. This is a pipe, when you are in shrimps were anything but fresh.

Mrs. N. Do you wish me to get up early in the morning, and go out shrimping ?

Mr. N. I certainly wish you would get up early in the morning as it is ridiculous to be breakfasting at ten o'clock at the sca-side.

Mrs. N. I don't see why people should come to the sea to make themselves uncomfortable.

a rage, but it is a meerschaum, when you are going to fill and light it, preparatory to some little domestic manœuvre.

Mrs. N. A man who deserved to be called a husband would not make domestic manœuvres necessary, and a husband who deserved to be called a man would not reproach a wife with any little display of kindness. However, such a thing will not occur again.

« ZurückWeiter »