"Oh, Edward Jenkins! Clio, what a name, One of the chief subjects as to which Mr. Jenkins had magnanimously "warned his countrymen" was, of course, Mr. Disraeli; and it would seem probable that he considered one great part of his mission to Parliament to be to put that audacious and dangerous gentleman down, if not wholly to annihilate him. How he has succeeded in either or both of these enterprises we can leave o the impartiality and common-sense of the public! Apropos of the matter, however, there rises up before us one little scene of which we were the eye-witness. The Commons are discussing the clauses of the Merchant Shipping Bill, introduced by the Government after what may be called the Plimsoll episode. The Treasury Bench is compactly full, Mr. Disraeli, seated in his accustomed place, but hardly observing his accustomed attitude, is rubbing his hands up and down his knees and chatting cheerfully with the colleagues next to him. From below the gangway suddenly rises Mr. Edward Jenkins, who advancing some steps towards the table, proceeds to hurl the most tremendous invectives right at the faces on the crowded Treasury bench. When he assures the Ministers of the overwhelming fact that "they have brought themselves into disgrace with the country," one fully expects to see every individual culprit first of all hide his diminished and abashed head as well as he can by hanging it on his breast, and then taking the earliest opportunity of sneaking stealthily out of the House, behind Mr. Speaker's chair. But the actual effect is a little curious and slightly different. The entire row of faces is positively grinning, and each particular countenance seems to be expressing to the hon. member, "Do say that again, please!" Mr. Disraeli especially is a study, as, continuing to rub his knees, he eyes the gifted author of "Ginx's Baby" with such a queer, side-long, gentlysmiling glance, and occasionally turns to Sir Stafford Northcote to whisper some ridiculous jest in his ear. But when Mr. Jenkins sits down it is quite with the air as of one who should say, "Oh, yes, I quite understand that ghastly affectation of mirth; but, all the same, you are shivering in your shoes, and will have me to thank if you find yourselves turned out to-morrow." Mr. Jenkins was also a pertinacious questioner of heads of departments, and Mr. Disraeli was once gently reproached by The Times for the excessive way in which he suppressed "Ginx's Baby." The Times drew quite a touching parallel between the budding promise of the rising member for Dundee and Mr. Disraeli's own career! Mr. Disraeli, said The Times, ought to recollect his own early exploits, and to sympathise with the struggles of a kindred genius; a fellow feeling should make him wondrous kind, instead of wondrous ironical, What a magnificent compliment for the brilliant author of " Sybil " and "Coningsby," to be compared to the contemptible scribbler of "Ginx's Baby!" Was it, then, seriously meant-and this would have been the logical deduction-that in Mr. Edward Jenkins we were to descry the spirit of the Age in embryo, and in him to behold our future Prime Minister! The "leading journal's " plea for tender dealing with this aspiring young statesman was a little like what it would have been had some critic in Queen Anne's time implored Pope to have mercy upon "Sporus, that thing of silk, That mere white curd of ass's milk!" on the ground that some day "Sporus" might become a very eminent poet. Mr. Jenkins, strong in his literary antecedents, strong in his general reputation, and strong in the immense promise of his glorious future, is naturally, fond of making himself heard in the House of Commons; though whether that critical assembly is proportionately fond of hearing him is quite another matter. Somehow "Ginx's Babies," "Blots on the Queen's Head," "Crescents and Crosses," and other talented brochures of that kind, seem hardly to have impressed it as profoundedly as might have been expected. To treat the hon. gentleman's conceited and slovenly harangues as serious specimens of effective speaking, or of oratorical effort of any kind, would be too absurd. They can only be characterised as the vocal developments of concentrated essence of priggism. Lord Macaulay, in his celebrated essay on "Satan Montgomery's" poems, observes that the portrait of the author, included in the volume, is trying to look as much like the image of a man of genius as possible. A similar remark might very justly be made about Mr. Edward Jenkins. As he trips across Palaceyard with little fussy fantastic steps, and glances up at Great Ben as if he were afraid of being just a moment too late too save the empire, his whole air proclaims that he deems himself a man of transcendant ability, and an indispensible pillar of state on his way to support the tottering fabric of his country's constitution. On rising to address a breathless and anxious House, the same deportment is observable; though unfortunately it must be confessed that the hon. member's insipid and stereotyped features, and young, bald head with its cincture of red hair, considerably qualify the intended effect. Another of Mr. Jenkins's peculiarities, and one which frequently characterises priggism, is that of loving to get hold of the wand of some potent magician, and attempting to conjure with it. Thus, for instance, no sooner had Mr. Gladstone produced his pamphlet on the "Bulgarian Massacres," than Mr. Edward Jenkins rushed into print, "to warn his countrymen" once more, and 66 generally speaking to set the Thames on fire. It was amusing to notice how minutely the very style and tone of authority of the exPremier were aped by this political cipher. The voice of Jenkins was to supplement, if not to supersede, the voice of Gladstone! The Crescent and the Cross" was to agitate more deeply than Bulgarian Horrors!" We have never had the curiosity to inquire through how many editions the overpowering pamphlet ran. Apart from his priggish personality as a member of the House of Commons, it is abundantly clear, judging from silly social allegories like "The Devil's Chain," that Mr. Jenkins is saturated from top to toe with the hateful vice. He was born, he believes, to set the social world right, as well as the political. "Ginx's Baby," and similar productions of shallow smartness, may be among the books "talked about" during a season, and may invest their author with a temporary laurel; but, nevertheless, it would be well for the member for Dundee, and for all members of Parliament of his type, to open their eyes, once for all, to the very patent fact that among thoughtful men of all parties they are merely classed with the "ninkumpoops of politics." MOTLEY. FROM THE GERMAN OF MIRZA-SCHAFFY. ONCE on a time a blockhead said, That man was only born for grieving; And since the mob consists of fools, Forsworn throughout the land is pleasure; The people's sight, alas, is short, Their ears are of the longest measure. ON GROWING OLD. By the Author of "Maud Linden's Lovers," &c. It is not an uncommon thing for even very young people of both sexes to sigh and talk lackadaisically about growing old; and no doubt they speak truthfully, believe, as well as feel, that they are growing old. But young folks of this species are of the sentimental temperament, who invariably contemplate life from a melancholy point of view; and who probably develop this sentimental peculiarity as much from a chronically deranged liver as from a poetical idiosyncrasy. There are, of course, momentary pauses in the career of everybody, when we stop as it were and look with something of dismay at the flitting years—we acknowledge that we are getting old. But in this case, it is not so much the actual progress of years that we have in view, as the fact that the hopes of youth are hollow and delusive; and the unpleasant conviction which obtrudes itself that some object with which we started on our career has not been accomplished. In short that we have been a failure, and that the time is now drawing near when attempts to retrieve ourselves become hopeless. In fact, that we are getting too old to try to restore the bright illusions which experience has taught us are such. Such temporary forebodings of future darkness come over us often when we have much vitality still left! and, as we have before remarked, these have little to do with real age-except the age of experience. A girl who has been "out" four seasons without having become successfully rangée matrimonially, who sees two or three of her friends and confrères led to the altar, whilst she has only the painful reminisences of a flirtation at Scarboro' last year which came to nothing, and has left her a trifle paler and more passé than before, such a girl we say, naturally feels that she is growing old, because, in the sense in which she regards it, old age means simply old maidenhood. Similarly a barrister who has been going circuit for years with scarcely a brief to reward him, and who sees, after all, his junior getting silk before him, comes by-and-bye to entertain opinions very analogous to those of the young lady above referred to. Though, however, some persons are more apt than others to be susceptible of the unpleasant consciousness that they are growing old; and though all of us, without exception, are naturally desirous of delaying that consciousness to as remote a period as may be; there comes a time when the fact is thrust upon us, often with a sudden pang, whether we will or no. This period arrives when for the first time the fact is suddenly brought to your notice that your hair-the curly locks of which and its glossy texture you have been rather vain of—is now changing its raven hue. 66 "Why, Buggins, old fellow !" says a well-meaning friend, "You are getting quite grey !" It is still worse if the remark should be: Buggins, you are getting bald!" Then the sad fact dawns upon you that you will never again be as young as you used to be, that, in fact, you are getting old. If you have been a gay bachelor you turn to the looking-glass, and perceive, indeed, not only the silver streaks, but the crow's feet and the wrinkles likewise. You stroke your chin and confess that the time has come now or never, when you must make up your mind to marry and settle down. There is an epoch generally delayed a little into later life when we are still more forcibly reminded of the approach of age; that epoch is when we find ourselves unable to perform the same tasks without pain and labour which we have hitherto easily accomplished. When we cannot run upstairs without panting considerably as we near the top; when we cannot enjoy a fifteen-mile walk across country as thoroughly as we used to do; and still more unpleasantly when our digestion becomes delicate, and we look askance at salmon and cucumber for supper, dreading the disagreeable effects of it. Now, of course, no one likes to grow old. Scarcely any one but who would accept the privilege of perpetual youth if it were offered him, though probably he would become tired of being young by-and-bye. But we cannot help thinking that the alarm occasioned by the thought of it is very irrational. I imagine that the real dislike of getting old may be traced to the dread of death. But a moment's reflection will show us that old age and death have little to do with each other. From this point of view a young man of twenty in consumption is practically older than if he were seventy, but free from all disease-that is to say, that the probability of death is more approximate in the first case than in the last. Old age kills nobody, though disease and absolute decay do $0. He who has lived to be a hundred may probably live to reach a hundred and one, and may live an indefinite number of years beyoud. Again, a certain French philosopher-La Bruyères, we think - has remarked that every age has its pleasures. When we are thirty do we regret that we no longer play peg-top and fly a kite as we did at thirteen? Why, then, should we anticipate misery at seventy because we can then no longer participate in the amusements we indulged in at thirty-five? Surely, if we |