WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

Otago Witness, 14 December 1893, Page 45

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

By R. B. 11. Although Praed's longer poems abound in beautifal passages, it was his society verses and shorter poems which gained him his fame. None of these are very long; and with a few exceptions they really effervesce with fancifully mingled wit and wisdom, gaiety and tenderness, satire and philosophy. Throughout we plainly discern the hand of the gentleman as well as the scholar. Even when Praed assumes the role of censor towards the artificialities affected by society of bis day, his tact and good taste are both remarkable. Let us take his witfy prologua to " The Honeymoon " :

"Cruel papa ! don't talk about Sir Harry ! " So Araminta lisped ; " I'll never marry ; I loathe all men ; such unromantic creatures 1 The coarsest tastes, and, ah ! the coarsest features ! Betty ! the salts ! I'm sick with mere vexation, To hear them called the lords of the creation ; They swear fierce oaths, they seldom say their prayers ; And then they shed no tears — unfeeling bears ! I and the friend I share my sorrows with, Medora Gertrude Wilhelmina Smith, Will weep together through the world's disasters, In some green vale, unplagued by lords and masters, And hand in hand repose at last in death, As chaste and cold as Queen Elizabeth." She spoke in May, and people found in June, This was her " Prologue to the Honeymoon ! " In "Arrivals at a Watering Place," the wit and humour is even more pungent, as the following extract will show :—: — " Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures Last Sunday in the rector's seat ? The finest shape, the loveliest features— I never saw such tiny feet ! My brother — this is quite between vs — Poor Arthur— 'twas a sad affair, Love at first sight ! — she's quite a Venus, But then she's poorer far than fair ; And so my father and my mother Agreed it would not do at all ; And bo— l'm sorry for my brother !— It's settled that ive're not to call." In " School and Schoolfellows " — which touches all hearts — how delightfully he dwells upon the happy memories incidental to school days ; and how exquisite is the undercurrent of pathos and regret which every now and then he allows to come to the surface. We cannot quote the whole poem, but the stanzas given can hardly fail to strike a reeponsive chord in the bosoms of those who loviDgly, and perhaps regretfully, remember the sweet and innocent days of youth. r. Twelve years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics ; I wonderod what they meant by stock, I wrote delightful sapphics. I knew the streets of Kome and Troy, I supped with Fates and Furies — Twelve years ago I was a boy — A happy boy — at Drury's. 11. Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought Of faded pains and pleasures Thos,e whispered syllables have brought From Memory's hoarded treasures ! The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, The glories and disgraces, The voices of dear friends, the looks Of all-familiar faces ! . . . in. Kind Mater smiles again to mo As bright as when we parted : I seem again the frank, the free, Stout-limbed aud simple-hearted ; Pursuing every idle dream, And shunning every warning ; With no hard work but Bovncy stream, No chill except Long morning.

That I could bask in Childhood's sun, And dance o'er Childhood's roses, And find huge wealth in one pound one ( Vast wit in broken roses ; And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milkmaids houris, — That I could be a boy again — A happy boy— at Drury's. We will now turn to that strange and powerful poem, "Twenty-eight and Twentynine." In this unique poem poor human nature is subjected to a searching analysis. Though the composition is as trenchant as a sermon, there is abundant true humour besides. We cannot quote the whole poem, but the three verses given below will give a fair idea of one of Praed's finest efforts. The melodious swing of the rhythm of the composition will be noticed.

i. I heard a sick man's dying sigh, And an infant's idle laughter ; The old year went mourning by, And the new came dancing after. Let sorrow shed her lonely tear, Let revelry hold her ladle ! Bring boughs of cypress for the bier, Fling roses on the cradle : Mutes to wait on the funeral state ! Pages to pour the wine : A requiem for Twenty-eight, And a health to Twenty-nine ! ii. Alas for human happiness ! Alas for human sorrow ! Our yesterday id nothingness, — What else will be our morrow ? Still beauty must be stealing hearts, And knavery stealing purses ; Still cooks must live by making tarts, And wits by making verses : "While sages prate, and courts debate, The same stars set and shine ; And the world as it rolled through Twenty-eight Must roll through Twenty-nine. And oh ! I shall find how day by clay All thoughts and things look older ; How the laueh of pleasure grows less gay, And the heart of friendship colder ; But still I shall be what I have been, Sworn foe to Lady Reason, And seldom troubled with the spleen, And fond of talking treason : I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate, And throw— and write my line : And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eight I shall worship in Twenty- nine ! There are many more poetical compositions by Prted which are conspicuous for either originality and hamourousness, or beauty and pathos. As we only intend quoting one more mstrical example, it will be advisable to name some of the foregoing. The reader who peruses '« Marriage," " The Bachelor," the latter part of "Surly Hall" (styled " Vale,") the first canto of " Songs from the Troubadour," "The Ohilde's Destiny," "The Channfc of the Brazen Head," " Time's Song," " Utopia," and " Goodnight

to the Season " is certain to experience pleasure. The example which we are about to quote as our final selection from Praed's poetry is somewhat different in style and tone to anything else he has written. We do not profess infallibility, but we certainly think the lines " To ," Part 2, are as beautifully tender and gracefully refined as anything to be found in the published volume of his works. The lines possess a haunting charm not easy to define. i. As o'er the deep the seaman roves With cloud and storm above him, Far, far from all the smiles he loves And all the hearts that love him, 'Tis sweet to find some friendly mast O'er that same ocean sailing, And listen in the hollow blast To hear the pilot hailing. ii. On rolls the sea ! and brief the bliss, And farewell follows greeting ; On rolls the sea I— one hour is his For parting and for meeting. And who shall tell, on sea or shore, In sorrow or in laughter. If he shall see that vessel more Or hear that voice hereafter .' ! v. And scenes and smiles, so pure and glad, Are found and worshipped only To make our sadness seam more sad, Our loneliness more lonely :—: — It matters not ! a pleasant dream At best can be but dreaming ; j And if the true may never beam, j Oh ! who would slight the seeming ? Last verse : — Believe,— if e'er this rhyme recall J One thought of him who frames it, — Believe him one who brings his all Where love or friendship claims it. Though cold the surface of his heait, There's warmth beneath the embers ; For all its hopes it would not part With aught that it remembers ! As a writer of prose Praed does not attain to the unique position he occupies as a poet. His prose is witty and graceful, bub unfortunately a good dsal of it has only an ephemeral interest. His essays are proc arable, and will repay psrusal. We have referred to the delightful prote skate"' 1 , " Reminiscences of My Youth," which he wrote at the age of 18. It is quite ui:l.ke J anything else Praed has written. A j few quoted passages wil! give the reader j an idea of the style in which " The Eemui- j isc9ncet>" are written. " There are assooia- ; tijns in the names and the aspects of ! which it is impossible for us to retrain or j subdue. Who shall g&za v.pon the Opital, ] aud not think oi: tiicCrjsais? Wh'is'j 11 roam j round Stonehengo, and not, shU'M.'r at the knife of the Diuids? Who shall be a so- ' journer in Edstcn<}*p, and rsot enjoy swocL i visions of Shakspdare? My r.ntiw village! , Le&s celebrated are tM worthier whose images you recall to my imaginatioDj but

they are recalled in colours as constant and as vivid. How can I look upon your sports, without thinking of those who were my companions when I joined in them 7 How can I listen to the voice of your merriment, without thinking of those from whom in other days it sprung ? . . . Many years ago I looked upon these boyish pursuits with an eye very different from that which is now cast back towards them. Many years ago I thought nothing disgraceful which was not incompatible with innccencs in myself and charity towards my fellow-creatures. What would you have 1 I have grown more prudent, and lam not so happy. ... I was to leave the village next day in order to fix my abode among the haunts of busy men. In the evening, feeling a melancholy which I could not shake off, I took up my hat and wandered towards the churchyard. From a distance I perceived a bright and delicate figure hastily retiring from my approach. I leaned over the remains of the kind, the enthusiastic, the affectionate I The rose which I had planted there glistened beneath the moon. It was not the dew ; it was something more clear, more precious — it was a beautiful tear I I had rather have such a tear on my grave than a pyramid of marble."

We know that Praed had the poet's hpart and brain. We perceive that much of his literary work reaches a standard of excellence which claims onr admiration. But we somehow have the feeling also that he never gave his remarkable talents their full scope. If only the incentive to work had been given to him which fell to the lot of Sir Walter Scott, he would soon have attained a foremost position among the poets and writers of his day. Praed's lot was cast in pleasant places. He seems to have had an amiable disposition, was very popular, and was much sought after by society. He appears to have been careless of the after fate of what be wrote, and it is asserted that he never published any collection of his writings during his lifetime. But after all, we owe a debt of gratitude to Praed. We can turn to bis poems with profit and satisfaction when the mental palate, so to speak, wants relaxation from heavi3r literature. In his writings we find nothing egotistical, no obscurities, no grandiloquent passages. Instead, we have bright and sparkling descriptive writing, wit and pathos beautifully expressed, and language natural and simple. As a society poer, Praed shows greater delicacy and winsomeness than his fellows. In this class of writing, not even Tom Moore has the light touch of Praed. Thackeray comes nearest to him, though he does not wield so facile a pen as a poet. When we

assert that Praed only wants to be known to be appreciated, we simply state a fact. Much that he has written will surely live. We can turn again and again to certain oeautiful poem?, feeling that they bear a message as applicable to us as to those who lived and moved with Praed.