"OURSELVES." σε παπαιάξ, ὡς καλον κεκραγέναι.” Visitors' Book. FROM the days of Lucilius to those of the Editor of the Newcastle Paper, criticism has been occasionally a source of personal inconvenience, not to say physical pain, to the critic: we are too new in the editorial box to venture upon any attacks upon any one else, since we want the necessary coolness to look down a Viscomte's pistol, and make the calm reflection that we shall never know that we are hurt yet as we should not be true editors, if we did not fire a volley at some one, we wish just to “brush over" ourselves, the right to do which no one can deny us. But what may we mean by ourselves? Why, a fair average specimen of the young men of to-day: let us proceed in our own vernacular to "take stock.”—and first of the outer man. The Collar "à la Byron," is, on the whole, unobjectionable; we see in it "ease and elegance both combined," as the advertisements say. The headgear is various and fantastic; the grey wide-awake, savouring of romance and trout-fishing: the Glengarry, which leads us to suppose the wearer would adorn his lowland legs in a kilt if in Scotland: the Albert, emblem of the jaunty constitution of the wearer, and with an unfortunate tendency to be cocked: lastly, a blaze of flannels, caps of all colours, uniform in name if not in reality, and reminding us of the variegated colours of a nursery gardener's stock-only we wish the heads of the various greenhouses would inoculate their hybrids in better taste. Then comes another great characteristic, the swelling trowsers, in the shape of the Marie Louise pear, and the object being, it is suggested, for the Christmas pantomime at home, as the receptacle for the Clown's sausages; but any how they are an improvement on the "loud" style of article, imitative of Brussels carpets and window panes. On the whole we are satisfied with ourselves, if we could only have the courage not to wish to cultivate a set of moustachios, as soon as, or even before, nature is willing—this is a failing peculiarly found between the ages of seventeen and twenty, these being the years in which the said moustachios are most hideous. As to dress, there we may be said to pass muster, for dress cannot be called our general failing. And now for the interior of the peep-show: What do we say about our character ourselves? Why we speak with great enthusiasm of the advance of our generation; and in many points we are right-the wine-imbibing propensities of our fathers have died out; though the household bills for malt liquors tell a tale that a larger amount of actual liquid is imbibed, though of a more harmless nature. The spirit that found no rest except in a long course of hunting and shooting, has been in some measure abated, and a more useful longing for travel has seized us. But of this a word or two. Now that it has become an almost necessary portion of a man's education to have visited every hole and corner of the British Isles, and a fair portion of the rest of Europe, one ought not to say all it does is good, without considering about it. We do not deny its many good effects; it opens our eyes, and knocks down the high walls between which we have been hitherto walking; it enlarges our sympathies and our ideas by the sight of other men and other things, but are not these same boasted sympathies in many cases blunted somewhat like a razor that is brought back edge foremost along the strap. Say that some mountain pass, with all the beauties of nature to back a romantic post, has stirred up all our nature: we have no time to dwell on it, the feeling is an unpractical one, and finds no vent in any tangible form: we cannot stop, and our beds are taken at and it looks like rain. A good sermon does us no good, but rather harm, if it does not lead to some actual deed, however small; and thus the emotion which, if dwelt upon and enquired into, might have led to a keener appreciation of the true and the beautiful, only blunts what it was meant to sharpen. We are whirled on, and the same feeling is less liable to be stirred up again. The votary of nature and art is up in arms at this. Why not stop, says he, and fully appreciate all you see? why not spend your fortnight on a picture, and your month on a mountain view? If you can do so, Mr. Philo-Ruskin, do, we have nothing to do but to envy you; but we ask, is this the general case? is it not for most young Englishmen a hurry-skurry of three weeks, during which we do our mile an hour like the British Stag did his 1000 miles in so many quarters of hours. This we admit arises from the force of circumstances: few have a long time to spend on travel, and yet travel they must. But then there are others who are still more like the British Stag, who think more of their miles than their beauties, and whose reminiscences of pleasure from a walk in "the Lakes" are in reality bounded by the mountains they have climbed. We wish these gentlemen would transfer the same energy to the healthful exercise of long constitutionals at home, which we beg to assure them will be far cheaper. Again, the monkeys come back from seeing the world with their F backs up: the every-day beauties of nature are held nothing by them, because "you should have seen what we did at Hongkong." Our sympathies are like our capabilities of wonder, we cannot come out of ourselves again for the household dog when we have come out for the lion. And this leads me to another hole in our coat, and this too is all along of those same sympathies. It is now the "thing" to be excited, or affected, or what you will, with everything in the High Art style: now admitting the advantages of those who are so in reality, we think nevertheless many of us put on what we do not feel—a pro→ ceeding savouring a little of hypocrisy. We dare not say we don't care for any but plain poetry, if we are not to be set down as "a good fellow, but heavy in hand;" we must claim to be "enthusiastic :" if we have hurried over our tour, and thought only of the milestones, we are forced to say that the day at Wastwater was glorious, quite ecstatic, or else our reputation is spoilt. If we can really have felt all we say, well and good; but of the many who lay claim to such a sympathetic nature, the majority must be either humbugging others or humbugged by ourselves (for it is very easy to fancy we do appreciate Art); the latter of these views we shall charitably suppose to be the general case; and this characteristic of that class of us, who lay claim at all to the literary, strikes us as one of those most offensive to the bystander. But, bless me, what a serious lecture we are giving ourselves; it is quite time for us to beg our own pardon, and quit the subject. Young men of to-day, you may sit down; if you don't behave yourselves, we shall call you up at second lesson. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. Ναὶ μὰ τοὺς ἐν Μαραθῶνι προκινδυνεύσαντας. On, on, on, The general's word is given, O'er the deadly plain thick-strewn with slain, On, on, on, Though the stoutest holds his breath, The pass was narrow and long, The hill-sides vomited flame; But born of a race that ne'er turns back, Though dead and dying bestrewed their track; The foe stood like a wall, Masses of guns and men; But on, on, on, Set spurs to the raging steed; See the flints flash fire to the charger's ire, Triumph the guns are won- The gunner's black work is o'er ; Yet but half the work is done, Close up, once more, once more! Once more with a ringing cheer, The thundering horsemen sped; That glanced with the English red. |