The Sun.
London, England, 1867-03-16 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

Locier's English Anthology.

Lyra Elegantiarum. Edited by Frederick Locker.
One Vol. Pp. 360. Moxon and Co.
Tho daintiest little volume imaginable—all a-

blaze, even the very cover of it, with heraldic roses

and lilies—full of sweets and spices as one of those
delicious, old-fashioned jars of pot-pourri that one

so seldom meets with nowadays, and that seem to
have gone out with red-heeled shoes, sedan chairs,
and powdered perukes. As to the general design
of the book it cannot possibly be better described
than in the very wording of the sub-title—Lyra
Elegantiarum being described by Mr. Locker upon

is title-pago ns " A Collection of some of the Thst

Specimens of .ti ers (le ;Societe and hers d'Occasion

n the English Language, by Deceased Authors."
it is worthy of note--almost as though it resulted
roni a refionel eccentricity or elegant affectation on

;he part of the Compiler—that upon the very title-

plge of a Book so essentially and intensely English

n its character he should have felt constrained to

have recourse to Latin and French for the more

:xact definition of his design in regard to its

contents. Lyra Eleyantiarum, as a title, we
can't help thinkisg that he might have bettered.
Vers de SocietO, however, and Vers d' Occasion are

almost as difficult to translate, with a due preserva-
tion of their full significance, as that purely Eng-

lish word "home," for which no other language,
ancient or modern, has an equivalent. And, speaking
of the former of these two kinds of poetical
effusion, the compiler takes occasion very cleverly

in his Preface to remark that " The chief merit of
vers de sociele is that it should seem to be entirely
spontaneous; when the reader says to himself, 1
could have written that, and easily too,' he pays the
poet the highest possible compliment. At the same
time, it is right to observe that this absence of
effort, as recognised in most works of real merit, is
only apparent ; the writing of vers de socieU is a
difficult accomplishment, and no one has succeeded
in it without possessing a certain gift of irony,
which is not only a much rarer quality than
humour, or even wit, but is altogether less com-
monly met than is sometimes imagined." Subtle
irony we grant him—irony such as Sydney Smith
so wittily describes it, when comparing it to a sword-
stick—something seemingly harmless in itself, yet

from which there suddenly leaps forth another
something keen, deadly, and incisive—irony of that
highest kind of all, no doubt is rarer than the gene-
rality might conjecture ; and, though apparently
produced with facility, is in truth, as he hints, the
result of consummate skill in the application to
it of the rules of art, but above them all of the
ars celare artem. Otherwise, irony, in its ordi-
nary acceptation, blossoms as plentifully by the
wayside as the common stinging nettle, and
is almost as difficult of handling. Revert-

ing, however, from a momentary considera-
tion thus of merely one ingredient, but an
ingredient in its way absolutely requisite, as Mr.
Locker justly insists, for the fabrication of genuine
or veritable Vers de Socie'te'—reverting from the con-
sideration of this one ingredient in Vers de Societe,
to a consideration of Vers de Societe as a whole, we
cannot help feeling that, though the phrase itself
is a mere imported gallicism, the happiest Vers de
Societe ever produced, one may find to have been pro-
duced by Englishmen ! As affording an attestation,
❑pon the instant, of the absolute truth of this, we
might content ourselves with the mention of the
name of Praed alone. That most charming writer
of Vers de Societe has produced specimens of it
that in their way are unsurpassable. But,
apart from Praed, the book itself now under
notice yields proof positive that English Litera-
ture, in regard to that most delicate and delightful
species of poetic composition, can " hold its own"
when brought into comparison with the masterpieces

of any other literature, even with those of the litera-
ture of France. Together with this school or class
of poetry, or of poetic composition, comes the
companion school or class mentioned also (as we
have seen) upon Mr. Lockers' title-page, the Very
d'Occasion, or Occasional Verses, as we call them.
Coupling these together, we have a wide range
enough opened to any compiler of taste and judgment,
for the collecting together by him of very ample
stores indeed of miscellaneous verse of an emi-
nently beautiful character. Proof to actual de-
monstration of this, we have here before us in this
exquisite volumette. Perfect, or anything at all
like perfect, as a collection, we cannot in reason,
of course, hold it to be. So extravagant a claim as
that upon the reader's approval, Mr. Locker him-
self for one would never dream of advancing.
In effect, the best collection of the kind that could
by possibility ever be produced, would be no more
than an approximation towards anything like per-
fection even in the collector's owu estimation. Look-
ing with the kindliest eyes upon the contents of the
Lyra Elegantiarum, for example, we cannot but con-
ceive that in the first issue of it the compiler had
given an extravagantly disproportionate number of
quotations from the late 'Walter Savage Landor.
Whereas from Lovelace he had taken only fow—
-1
from Landor he had taken as many as forty 1 And
the excellence of the vast majority of those forty we
could not, for our own part, in any way recognize.
Herrick, if you will, even in the very wildest of his
conceits, is delicious. But, Landor !—" Boeotian
Walter Savage Landor," as Byron called him—
wickedly finding, when he so designated him, a
presposterous rhyme for Landor's patronymic, when
describing him as one—
" Mistaking for a swan Bob Southey's gander."

But then—dreadful to acknowledge, no doubt—we
are no believers in Landor, in him or in any of his
works. Leaving, as he did, at the last a most un-
savoury reputation, he has received from the first, as
we conceive, on reading even these we presume
choicest specimens of his poetic capabilities, the most
exaggerated commendations from those who are be-
lievers in him—a small and very select coterie we
may conjecture. It was a mistake of judgment,
therefore, as it appears to us, on the part of Mr.
Locker swamping his pages with these watery out-
pourings taken from Walter Savage Laudor's
poetical tributary to Ilelicon. From this to us
glaring blemish, however, the re-issue of the Lyra
Elegantiaruni is since then cleared. And in the
volume itself, from its very outset, what lovely and
ample compensatory extracts, are there not given
from other dead and gone poets of England ! From
Suckling, and Herrick, and Etherege, and Lovelace,
and Wither, and Vauburgh—to say nothing of the
more obviously inevitable names of the Dii Majores,
as they may be termed, of our English Parnassus.
Occasionally, as in Charles Lamb's case, for ex-
ample, we cannot but think that the selection made
by Mr. Locker has been very mistaken. Were we
to have restricted ourselves to one literary extract
from the Poems of Elia, we could have taken no
other for certain than " The Old Familiar Faces."
Instead of which we have here Charles Lamb's lines
"To Hester." If, once in a way, according to our
notion, however, Mr. Locker thus seems to us to have
made, as in this instance, an indifferent selection,
how often, on the other hand, have we not reason
to thank him for the exquisite good-taste
guiding his choice ! As when, for in-
stance, he gladdens our eyes and our heart with
Robert Brough's " Neighbour Nelly," with Thacke-
ray's "Mahogany Tree" and " Cane-Bottomed
Chair," with Father Prout's " Bells of Shandon,"
and Peacock's Love and Age," each and all of
these precious morceaux, tidbits, lumps of ambrosia !
Now and then, as it eeetns to us, we stumble
across a false-reading—that (supposing we are
not here in error) it would be very advisable to
have corrected at the earliest opportunity before
the next edition can make its appearance. As an
instance of this, we would mention Sir William
Jones's bewitching epigram on a Newly Born Infant
—an epigram that, to our recollection of it, should
have read thus more correctly than as it appears
at page 130—
On parent's knees a naked, new-born child
Weeping there sat'st, whilst all around thee smiled,
So live that sinking to thy last long sleep,
Then thou may'st smile whilst all around thee weep.

Or again, as in the instance of Catherine Fau-
shawe's "Riddle on the Letter IT," so long attributed
quite erroneously to Lord Byron (and in every
way worthy of Byron)—the opening line of which,