Praed's chief characteristics are his sparkling wit, the clearness and finish of his style, and the flexibility and unflagging vivacity of his rhythm. He is a master of epigram and antithesis, especially of the kind exemplified by the following couplets : or, 'He lay beside a rivulet, And looked beside himself'; 'And some grow rich by telling lies, His defects are that he lacks sincerity and variety of theme,— that his brilliancy at times becomes mere glitter, and his manner mechanical. His biographer assures us that his nature had a deeper and graver side than would be suspected from his habitual tone of sportive irony: it is incontestable, however, that the indications of this in his works are faint compared with those which we find in Thackeray and Hood. My own Araminta is an admirable example of his lightest style; the Vicar of his more pensive character-pieces; whilst in My little Cousins, which our space does not permit us to quote, there is a rarer vein of playful tenderness. In many of his charades he almost manages to raise those metrical pastimes to the dignity of poetry. AUSTIN DOBSON. 1 Praed may perhaps have taken the hint of this device from the Holy Fair, 'There's some are fou o' love divine; There's some are fou o' brandy.' VOL. IV Nn A LETTER OF ADVICE. FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON. You tell me you're promised a lover, My own Araminta, next week; Why cannot my fancy discover The hue of his coat and his cheek? Alas! if he look like another, A vicar, a banker, a beau, Be deaf to your father and mother, Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, Taught us both how to sing and to speak, I wear it wherever I go; I gave you a chain,—is it broken ? O think of our favourite cottage, And think of our dear Lalla Rookh! How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, 'What further can grandeur bestow?' Remember the thrilling romances We read on the bank in the glen; Would picture for both of us then. They wore the red cross on their shoulder, They had vanquished and pardoned their foe Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder ? My own Araminta, say 'No!' You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage, And whispered How base she has been!' When I heard I was going abroad, love, We walked arm in arm to the road, love, My own Araminta, say "No"!' We parted! but sympathy's fetters I muse o'er your exquisite letters, And feel that your heart is mine still; And he who would share it with me, love,→ The richest of treasures below, If he's not what Orlando should be, love, If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, If he studies the news in the papers If he's sleepy while you are capricious, If he ever sets foot in the City If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses,My own Araminta, say 'No!' If he speaks of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers, If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,My own Araminta, say 'No!' He must walk-like a god of old story Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile-like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best ; And oh! from its ivory portal Like music his soft speech must flow!— If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say 'No!' Don't listen to tales of his bounty, Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county, Don't calculate what he is worth ; But give him a theme to write verse on, And see if he turns out his toe; If he's only an excellent person,― My own Araminta, say 'No!' LIBRARY THE VICAR. UNIVERSITY OF Some years ago, ere time and tafeALIFORNIA. Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, Back flew the bolt of lissom lath; Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle; Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say— Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end, And twenty curious scraps of knowledge,— With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar. |