ter as is this morality, which is the last word of political scepticism, "Le Prêtre de Némi" contains passages of exquisite poetry and others of profound philosophy. It is the most terrible judgment that has been passed on the political situation of our existing France. It might be useful but for being so despairing. G. MONOD. From The Saturday Review. C. S. CALVERLEY.* THE late Mr. Calverley was the hero and the poet of British boyhood, of the universities and public schools. Though he did not even attempt to cope with Mr. W. G. Grace and Mr. A. G. Steel in those manly arts which most readily appeal to the young, he preserved an extraordinary buoyancy and audacity, mental and physical, which were exactly the qualities that we admire in early years. At Harrow, at Balliol, at Cambridge, Mr. Calverley (or Blayds, as he was named when at Harrow and Oxford) left behind him a memory and a tradition. Scarcely any other man, however distinguished at college, however famous in after life, has been so fortunate in being thus remembered. Mr. Calverley preserved a coolness and ready wit rare at the universities, where even masters of arts have been known to say that they "always lose their presence of mind when they meet a proctor." Mr. Calverley, on the other hand, made those replies to head masters and those repartees to heads of houses which have now gone the round of the papers, extracted from the pleasant little memoir by Mr. Walter Sendall. There is not, perhaps, much more than high spirits and good humored "cheek" in the tales about how "Blayds scored off the master;" nor do we feel at all confident that, with the master of to-day, Blayds would have been equally successful. The myths about the present autocrat of Balliol present him rather in the attitude of the scorer than of the scored off. However, Blayds certainly had the last word with Dr. Jenkins, till the Balliol dons, with that sad tendency to resort to the ultima ratio, sent Blayds down for good. It is impossible not to relapse into the epic diction of that re • The Literary Remains of Charles Stuart Cal verley. With a Memoir by Walter J. Sendall. Lon1835. don: Bell & Sons. Verses and Fly Leaves. By Charles Stuart Calverley. London: Bell & Sons. 1885. mote period when we speak of the heroic age of Blayds. Mr. Sendall gives a few of the mural inscriptions which helped to make his reputation at Balliol, but glides gently over that awful scene, the last common room, when Blayds uttered his last public jest at the dons. The memory of the event has become mixed, in undergraduate tradition, with another such occasion, as the memories of Charles Martel and of Charlemagne are blended in the chansons de geste. Was it Calverley or another bard who commemorated the fall of a hero in these touching lines? — How came it that his terms, grown short, Oh, 'twas that first he floored the Port, These waifs of song of old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago— these memories of academic celebrities, float about the recollections of a college, and end by attaching themselves to the name of the best-remembered hero. There are anecdotes told of Calverley at Christ's College, Cambridge, which were certainly told about an earlier graduate in another university. Each master of a college succeeds, after a few years, to all the anecdotes once current about his predecessor, who, again, inherited them, so that in an old college - like Balliol—or University the good things may be at least as an cient as the Wars of the Roses. But in addition to his repute for witticisms, far better deserved, doubtless, than the few that have been rescued, Calverley, in his youth, had a province of his own. He was a great jumper, before the days when jumping was a thing of "records" and scientific precision, and when the barrier to be jumped was only a lath laid lightly across two pegs. In that genre " Brookes of Brazenose" has built himself an everlasting fame by clearing, we think, six feet two inches and a quarter in height. Professor Wilson too, before he was a professor, is fabled by De Quincey to have leaped the Cherwell where it is twentythree feet wide. This, if it could be proved, outdoes the exploit of Tosswell of Oriel, and his famous jump was not a water jump. Wilson's feat, in truth, is on a level with that wonderful leap on the ice attributed to Skarphedin by the “Njala.” But the bigots of our iron time will hear of no exploits not vouched for by official umpires. We shall never know the limit of Calverley's powers; he preferred to go | At Oxford Calverley early won a Balliol at dangerous leaps like the Merton jump- scholarship and the chancellor's prize for er, who cleared, almost without a run, "in Latin verse. He had to print his compo and out," the tall and stubborn spiked sition, as usual, and, with his accustomed iron railings that border the path to the high spirits, inscribed on the title page Christ Church meadows between Corpus and Merton. We quote from Mr. Sendall's memoir an account of Calverley's prowess as a jumper: "In Christ Church meadows," writes the Bishop of Colchester, "there was a broad ditch, now, I think, covered, or concealed by a wall; and on the bank of this ditch grew a willow whose branches formed a Y or fork some three feet above the ground, just wide enough for a man's body to pass through. Blayds would leap over the ditch and through the fork; a feat requiring both strength and precision, and involving serious damage in case of failure. I will not be absolutely certain that I myself saw him do this, though my recollection is that I did; but I am quite certain that it was done, and I remember the spot well." Mr. Southwell's story is even more surprising. "At Cambridge," he says, "I remember an instance of his activity and indifference to danger. He was walking with me in Green Street; a horse in a cart was drawn up on to the pavement, the horse being on the pavement, the cart in the street. With his cap and gown on, and his hands in his pockets, and with a very short run he cleared the, I should say, astonished steed, and alighted smiling on the other side." A wilder jump yet was taken over a hedge, about which it could only be said with certainty that there was a deep drop on the other side. There was a deeper drop than Calverley had bargained for - he lighted in a well! With so much strength, activity, and physical fearlessness Calver. ley could not but be popular; and to those qualities he added good humor, ceaseless mirth, and an extraordinary, perhaps unparalleled, talent for composition in verse. Mr. S. Austen Leigh has supplied the following illustration of his readiness: I remember one instance of his great powers of versification. He came into my room one Tuesday afternoon to ask me to go out jump. ing with him. I told him I could not go because I had a set of Greek Iambics that must be done that day. He said "Nonsense, that won't take you long." My answer was that it certainly would, for at present I had not arrived at understanding the English -some lines of Shakespeare. He took up a pen and paper, sat himself down, and bade me read out the English. I did so, and as I read, slowly, it is true, but with hardly any stop, he wrote them down in Greek Iambics, good enough at all events quite to pass muster. CAROLUS STUART BLAYDS, e COLL. BALLIOL prope ejectus. When one of the tutors remonstrated, Calverley observed that "these tiresome printers would do anything." At Cambridge there are not nearly so many anecdotes about Calverley, or, if anecdotes exist, they have not been published. At Cambridge, before taking his degree, Cal. verley wrote that famous " Ode to Beer" which illustrates, as well as any of his What can be more fluent and graceful and work, his wonderful command of verse. better equipped with all the qualities of style than the following stanzas: Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned With all the lustre of the dying day, And on Citharon's brow the reaper turned, How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned (Humming, of course, in his delightful way, The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay; And how rock told to rock the dreadful story That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory;) What would that lone and laboring soul have given, At that soft moment for a pewter pot! How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven, And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot! If his own grandmother had died unshriven, In two short seconds he'd have recked it not, Such power hath Beer. Grief hath canker'd The heart which Hath one unfailing remedy — the Tankard. This was the peculiarity of Calverley's muse; he could write every kind of verse with almost unmatched excellence, but, having nothing to say, like some other poets, he said nothing but mirthful follies. Another man, with his gift, would have struggled and striven and won the mild rewards of the minor poet. He was far too good a writer of verse to be popular as a mere moralist; the public would not have forgiven him his versatile genius for expression; he could not have maundered in mild blank verse and lyrics that do not scan. Nor could he have been morbid and played on minor keys; all the fun of the man came out in his poems. He thus obtained with "Verses and Fly Leaves" a very considerable popularity, which is Why are ye wandering aye twixt porch and porch, Thou and thy fellow - when the pale stars fade At dawn, and when the glowworm lights her O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade? glade, The lilac bloom of April, fair to view, And naught but fair are those; and such, I ween, are you! not likely to wane for many a year. In that poetry is the criticism of life. Again, the light of one theory of art, perhaps, what profundity there is in the lines: Calverley may be regarded as a true and most successful poet. Mr. Courthope, in "The Liberal Movement in English Literature," writes: "The test of the standard rank of any poet is simply his capac ity for producing lasting pleasure by the metrical expression of thought, of whatever kind it may be”. a definition which lets in Pope, and naturally admits Calverley. He certainly gives lasting pleasure by the metrical expression of thought most humorous, and gay with high spirits. Perhaps his parodies were Calverley's best-liked pieces, he certainly was a paro: dist in a thousand. As a rule he did not imitate any given piece, but wrote as the poet he burlesqued would have written in the circumstances if suddenly visited by a sense of humor. The often parodied "Lays of Ancient Rome" were never more cunningly imitated than by him. The Browning Society is feigned to have bought up and destroyed "Fly Leaves" to annihilate the impious legend of "The Cock and the Bull." If Miss Ingelow never comes by her own merits where Sappho and Emily Brontë are, she must survive in "Lovers and a Reflection." Perhaps "For Ever," if less popular, is even more amusingly skilful: O thou to whom it first occurr'd Of power: We bless thee! Whether far or near But in men's hearts shall be thy throne, While the great pulse of England beats! Thou coiner of a word unknown To Keats! "Thoughts at a Railway Station " appear to us worthy of Mr. Matthew Arnold, in the moment when he is most convinced the We cannot see why this should be less immortal, metrically it is not less beautiful, than "Adonais," or the best things in "Faerie Queene." Unluckily, the lines "after Proverbial Philosophy can scarcely be quite appreciated by readers who know no more of Tupper than of Chapelain. It is sad that oblivion should ever scatter his poppy over a popular writer, and particularly hard on his paro dist. The volume which contains the memoir of Calverley contains also many transla tions of Latin hymns, of no very unusual merit, several prize poems, exercises in Greek and Latin, and two or three pieces quite worthy of a place in "Fly Leaves." The indolence which accompanied the author's immense natural force was converted from a habit into a necessity by an accident in quite early life. None can tell what place he might have won in the world had he fought for a place. He preferred the fallentis semita vitæ. Mr. Sendall adds an eloquent tribute to his private worth, and Mr. Besant a deeply interesting chapter on old Cambridge days and ways, when men drank beer and milk punch, and on that long vacation tour which Calverley wrote off in rhyme. In Calverley we probably have lost the greatest natural humorist, as distinguished from the professional grinner through horsecollars, since Thackeray. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents. A BIRD'S SONG. And in the cold east rose the stars. Which broods upon the twilight hour. Loud through the eve-wrapt, listening vale, Enraptured listeners lingered long; A little child, scarce three years old, And surging strains of holy hymn, Than shining shores in emerald seas, Where glows the lustrous evening star Above the fair Hesperides. A maiden at the moss-fringed well Her soul enthralled with the strange spell For oh! to her it ever sings Of love which all her being fills, And of the lad the twilight brings From over the dividing hills. To child, and youth, and maiden fair That bird made glad the closing day; But dame and sire with silvered hair Drew sorrow from its roundelay. All filtered through the years of woe On their hearts fell the mellow strain, Waking the songs of long ago, And made them sigh for youth again! All The Year Round. GORSE. Stretches of English land, wide, windy, sunny, Free from the fetters of that monster, Money, Big with delusive promise full of treason; Harbors the wren, the furzeling, and the coney, Feeds goose and ass there, soul too, lord of reason. Wild wealth of merry May, of dim December ! Swedish Linnæus fell upon his knees To thank with joy the Everliving Power (No scraps of lore forbade him to remember) Giving such wondrous beauty to a flower, To man the beauty-loving eye that sees. Athenæum. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. |