SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
Reading edition
MR. HUNT, M.P. FOR PRESTON.
(From Speakers and Speeches in Parliament, in the New Monthly Magazine.)
Feb. 3. Mr. Hunt.—I was particularly curious to witness the debut of the Hon. Member for Preston, in an assembly so little accustomed, as that so long misnamed the House of Commons, to such an out-and-outer of the Demos coming between the wind and their nobility—to see whether any gaucherie of manner would betray an uneasy consciousness of his not being quite at ease among those scions of aristocracy, who occupy benches originally intended for the virtual representatives of the people. Mr. Hunt, on the whole, bore himself well; and, by a total absence of affectation, of either tone or manner—that surest test of the gentleman, at least of Nature's forming—disappointed his audience of their ready smiles at demagogue vulgarity. But once, and that for a moment, did his self-possession seem to fail him while going through the ceremonies preceding a new member's taking his seat. After the member has signed his name and taken the oaths, he is formally introduced by the Clerk of the House to the Speaker, who usually greets the new trespasser on his patience by a shake of the hands. This ceremony is in general performed by the present Speaker with a gloved hand towards those not particularly distinguished by wealth or pedigree. When the new member for Preston was introduced to him, he was in the act of taking snuff, with his glove off. Mr. Hunt made a bow, not remarkable for its graceful repose, at a distance—apprehensive, as it struck me, that the acknowledgment would be that of a noli me tangere, exclusive. He was agreeably disappointed: the Speaker gave him his ungloved hand at once, in a manner almost cordial; and Mr. Hunt took his seat, evidently pleased by the flattering courteousness of his reception.
I take it that the personal appearance of Mr. Hunt is too well known to require description. He is, take him altogether, perhaps the finest looking man in the House of Commons—tall, muscular, with a healthful, sun-tinged, florid complexion, and a manly Hawthorn deportment—half yeoman, half gentleman sportsman. To a close observer of the human face divine, however, his features are wanting in energy of will and fixedness of purpose. The brow is weak, and the eyes flittering and restless; and the mouth is usually garnished with a cold simper, not very compatible with that heart-born enthusiasm which precludes all doubt of truth and sincerity.
TRUTH.
Friend, Truth is best of all. It is the bed Where Virtue e'er must spring, till blast of doom; Where every bright and budding thought is bred, Where Hope doth gain its strength, and Love its bloom. As white as Chastity is single Truth, Like Wisdom calm, like Honour without end; And Love doth lean on it, in age and youth, And Courage is twice arm'd with Truth its friend. Oh! who would face the blame of just men's eyes, And bear the fame of falsehood all his days, And wear out scorned life with useless lies, Which still the shifting, quivering look betrays? For what is Hope, if Truth be not its stay? And what were Love, if Truth forsook it quite? And what were all the Sky,—if Falsehood gray Behind it like a Dream of Darkness lay, Ready to quench its stars in endless, endless night? New Monthly Magazine.
SCENE FROM "THE FROGS OF ARISTOPHANES"
Translated in the Quarterly Review.
We are not at present breathing the air either of Christ Church meadow or Trinity gardens; and if our version of a piece of mere pleasantry, which involves nothing in it beyond a moment's laugh, should be so happy as to satisfy the 'general reader,' we shall affect 'for the nonce,' to know nothing of the objections which more scientific persons, the students of the brilliant Hermann, and acute Reisigius, might be supposed to make to our arrangement of this little extravaganza.
Scene, the Acherusian Lake. BACCHUS at the oar in Charon's Boat; CHARON;—CHORUS OF FROGS; in the background a view of Bacchus's Temple or Theatre, from which are heard the sound of a scenical entertainment.
Semi-chorus. Croak, croak, croak. Semi-chorus. Croak, croak, croak.
(In answer, and with the music an octave lower.)
Full Chorus. Croak, croak, croak.
And roisterers were roaming,
And bards flung about them their gibe and their joke;
The holiest song
Still was found to belong
To the sons of the marsh, with their
Full Chorus Croak, croak.
LEADER. Shall we pause in our strain, Now the months bring again The pipe and the minstrel to gladden the folk? Rather strike on the ear With a note strong and clear, A chant corresponding of—
Chorus. Croak, croak.
BACCHUS (mimicking.) Croak, croak, by the gods I shall choke, If you pester and bore my ears any more With your croak, croak, croak.
LEADER. Rude companion and vain, Thus to carp at my strain; (To Chor) But keep in the vein, And attack him again With a croak, croak, croak.
Chorus (crescendo.) Croak, croak, croak.
BACCHUS (mimicking.) Croak, croak, vapour and smoke, Never think it, old Huff, That I care for such stuff, As your croak, croak, croak.
Chorus (fortissimo.) Croak, croak, croak.
BACCHUS. Now fires light on thee, And waters soak; And March winds catch thee Without any cloak. For within and without, From the tail to the snout, Thou'rt nothing but croak, croak, croak.
LEADER. And what else, captious Newcomer, say, should I be? But you know not to whom you are talking, I see: (With dignity) I'm the friend of the Muses, and Pan with his pipe, Holds me dearer by far than a cherry that's ripe: For the reed and the cane which his music supply, Who gives them their tone and their moisture but I? And therefore for ever I'll utter my cry Of—
Chorus. Croak, croak, croak.
BACCHUS. I'm blister'd, I'm fluster'd, I'm sick, I'm ill—
Chorus. Croak, croak.
BACCHUS. My dear little bull-frog, do prithee be still. 'Tis a sorry vocation—that reiteration, (I speak on, my honour, most musical nation,) Of croak, croak.
LEADER (maestoso.) When the sun rides in glory and makes a bright day, Mid lilies and plants of the water I stray; Or when the sky darkens with tempest and rain, I sink like a pearl in my watery domain: Yet, sinking or swimming. I lift up a song, Or I drive a gay dance with my eloquent throng, Then hey bubble, bubble— For a knave's petty trouble, Shall I my high charter and birth-right revoke? Nay, my efforts I'll double, And drive him like stubbie Before me, with—
Chorus. Croak, croak, croak.
BACCHUS. I'm ribs of steel, I'm heart of oak, Let us see if a note May be found in this throat To answer their croak, croak, croak. (Croaks loudly.)
LEADER. Poor vanity's son— And dost think me outdone, With a clamour no bigger Than a maiden's first snigger? (To Chorus) But strike up a tune, He shall not forget soon
(Chorus.) Of our croak, croak, croak,
(Croak, with a discordant crash of music.)
BACCHUS. I'm cinder, I'm coke, I have had my death-stroke; O, that ever I woke To be gall'd by the yoke Of this croak, croak, croak, croak. LEADER. Friend, friend, I may not be still: My destinies high I must needs fulfil, And the march of creation—despite reprobation Must proceed with—(To Chor.) my lads, must I make application For a— Chorus. Croak, croak, croak. BACCHUS (in a minor key.) Nay, nay—take your own way, I've said out my say, And care naught, by my fai', For your croak, croak, croak. LEADER. Care or care not, 'tis the same thing to me, My voice is my own and my actions are free; I have but one note, and I'll chant it with glee, And from morning to night that note it shall be— Chorus. Croak, croak, croak. BACCHUS. Nay then, old rebel, but I'll stop your treble, With a poke, poke, poke: Take this from my rudder—(dashing at the frogs)—and that from my oar, And now let us see if you'll trouble us more With your croak, croak, croak. LEADER. You may batter and bore, You may thunder and roar, Yet I'll never give o'er Till I'm hard at death's door, —(This rib's plaguy sore)— Semi-chorus With my croak, croak, croak. Semi-chorus (diminuendo.) With my croak, croak, croak. Full Chorus (in a dying cadence.) With my croak—croak—croak.
(The Frogs disappear)
BACCHUS (looking over the boat's edge.) Spoke, spoke, spoke. (To Charon.) Pull away, my old friend, For at last there's an end To their croak, croak, croak.
(Bacchus pays his two obols, and is landed)