The Press. — London, England, 1853-11-12 00:00:00

NOVEMBER 12, 1853. THE PRESS. SKETCHES OF RADICALS. 5. THE RADICAL POET. I DO not consider the ordinary British Radical very friendly to polite letters. He is too hard and stern. He prefers "at copy of the Times newspaper," you know, to the most famous literary productions. He is not very susceptible to the beautiful generally, but turns everything to a practical account—as wild roses are gathered annually in bushels to be used in making chemical drugs That immense hubbub which is made about the diffusion of knowledge, and so forth, accordingly does not. lead to a love of literature for literature's sake : no ; letters take their turn with cotton and little children, and are toed. Knowledge becomes the slave of agitation as Aladdin summoned the genie to get him dinners. Thus—does the gifted Plebson, Ph.D., lecture on Shakspeare ? He does ; and how? Why, " Shakspeare anal his political wisdom —the " practical instruction in Shakspeare "—these are his themes. He ransacks the plays for passages wherein—no matter how—anything is said by any character unfavourable to kings, priests, or lords—and presto ! he interprets these into attacks by the mighty William on the political systems of the world. For instance, we quote from the flay young Laertes, " I tell thee, ►'huurlixh priext, A ministering angel shall my aiater When thou Hest howling," and (with a demonic emphasis on the words) proceeds to say that here we may see how that great intellect loathed the tyranny of the Church ! (Roars of applause.) It is of no great importance what Plebson thinks of Shakspeare, to be sure ; a modest man may remark, however, what grand fellows Shakapeare made the feudal potentates to be— what a noble old tradition it was which made the dramatists, from the earliest times, choose princes and potentates as their embodiments of all human excellence ; and how admirably our princely William has delineated a certain school in the persons of Cade awl his friends. But I must not linger with the gifted P. I only use him to illus trate the character of the Radical poet, who, on the same system, em ploys his vision and faculty divine not to write poetry, as poetry, or to attempt that even, but to set to music (his music, such as it is) all that Mawker does in philosophy, Bugby in history, Linuner on the platform, and Ponto Sparks in the Cml. Thus a grand harmony is maintained. In the orgies of polities, while Bugby prophesies and yells, and Ponto jumps about like a baboon, and " Evoe," down " with everything," is the fanatic cry, Squally, the poet, makes the timbrel resound and the lute quaver in chorus with the crew ; the long-cared everywhere gather to tlic mighty union of sound. and all goes on in uproarious unison ! Squally is fond of giving himself fine names. Sometimes he is the " Tyrtteus of Democracy," or the " Homer of the Movement." Some times, his friends having looked out rates in Ainsworth's Dictionary and found that it signifies prophet us well as bard, and assuming the premiss that Squally is a genuine bard, hold him up as a " seer," and wish us to look with reverence on his rhymes. " Roar little louder," one of his best-known lucubrations, was played by organs, I believe, over all England, and is better known than the songs of Merrick, Tennyson, Shelley, and Withers put together, one reason why I particularly admire a " popular" reputation in our enlightened day. A charming chasteness, which rejects all undue ornament, a delicious characterises the songs of this bard. Here, for instance, mark : " Rank shall then have nought to Nay, Birth shan't make folks prouder; Wealth won't hinder men from ploy, Boar a little louder." Compared with these, you observe, Tennyson's " Splendour falls " is a ludicrously overwrought picture ; and, indeed, Squally no doubt considers Tennyson overrated, and that Tom Paine, versified by Cat nut, is a higher species of composition than his, altogether. Imagination is notoriously the highest poetic quality, and the imagination of Squally is not allowed to lie idle. Does an indolent and adventurous fellow in the country, after sleeping off the beer of the morning, sally forth after sunset to nab pheasants, and playfully maul a keeper with the assistance of his gun, Squally seizes the lyre, and denounces the tyranny which consigns him to gaol. The lyrists of antiquity loved the subject of Ixion, and every fellow on a treadmill is an Ixion to Squally. With the facts he has nothing to do : let a poacher be mentioned, and his imagination conjures up a picture of a peaceful cottage, inhabited by a laborious but unfortunate peasant, who, struggling long with destiny, at last succumbs, and who—who, in fact, must be turned into that song which Squally has promised the Regenerator, on the instant. Squally loved', likewise, to " fraternise" with mankind generally. He has always the word " brother " in his mouth, or " solidarity of peoples," or something of the kind. To love your neighbour and to 661 hate your neighbour's government is the foreign policy of his party. Tear up national traditions by the roots ; overlook all differencen made by a thousand years of diverse blood, climate, and tongue ; varnished over with a little sentiment, black, white, red, and yellow aro all the same. " Let all the nations rrottill join In a compact Ann mid true ; And each kiss his brother (Somehow or other), In 1862:" This was the strain with which Squally ushered in the year after the Exhibition. In strains like these he urges on the human mind to that millennium of cheap production and no govermuent which his inspired vision secs iu the future. ABERDEEN'S COMPLAINT. (Arm' Comma.) Forced from home and all its pleasures, Premier's post I took, forlorn, Knowing I must counsel measures Recently I'd laughed to scorn. For the Coalition " sold" me, 61ad to clutch the nation's gold, But though colleague they've enrolled me, They, in their turn, now are sold Still the Czar's as much as ever, What are England's rights, I Ksk, Him from Stamboul's soil t4l sever, And his projects take to task ? If he deigns, in pure aftction, Certain provinces to claim, To oppose his predilection Seems to me a burning shame. Why did all-creating Nature .loin the Russ and Turkish soil, If the Danube's muddy water Russian enterprise must foil ? Think, ye English, iron•hearted. (Lolling at your jovial boards) Only think of Turkey, parted From the gallant Cossack hordes. True, the Czar has knotted scourges. Which his blinded foes abuse, But they're things his duty urges On blasphemers' backs to use. He, observing what vexations Turkish Christians undergo, Just appeals to pitying nations, Like a Russian Mrs. Stowe. Talks of modern bastinadoes, Wooden yokes fur Christian necks, Sketched in travels—see Miss Pardoes--• Also by the rougher sex. Shocked to think such dreadful torture Is inflicted by the Porte, Nicholas commissions tiortsclia. Koff to cut such doings short. Yet a cruel Press reviles him, Scoffs at his paternal rule ; Faithless, ruthless, tyrant styles him, And declares I'm but his tool. Slaves of law, who keep appealing To your boasted Western l'ow•ers, How we movk your taunts, while feeling Ilow your craft's outmatched by ours. n.. _.~