caught that lofty poetry and eloquence which Aristophanes knew so well how to commingle with broad farce and scathing satire:

THE CLOUDS.

'We come! we come!

The eternal clouds to mortal sight,

Our dewy forms are floating light,

From father Ocean's ever-sounding home,
Up to the loftiest mountain's woodcapped brow;
Whence on the beaconing watch-tower
bright

Down we cast our ranging sight;

Where the rich champaign spreads below, '、
And where the murmuring rivers pour,
And the deep endless seas for ever roar.

For lo! the unwearied eye

Of heaven is blazing high,

Bathing all nature in its glittering beams;
Our dipping mists we shake away,
In our immortal forms survey

Where to the expanding ken the world of glory gleams,'

The great extent to which classical translations have prevailed of late is very remarkable, intimating that although there may be many unsatisfactory features in the education of the present day, the highest forms of intellectual culture are still carefully adhered to among ourselves. Besides these translations from Greek and Latin into English, there have been of late many admirable translations from English into Greek and Latin. There is a very fair account of them in the current number of the Edinburgh Review.' Sir Bulwer Lytton's new volume, both in form and substance, may be considered of the classic type. It is an ingenious attempt to introduce into English metres a kind of Sapphic and Alcaic, unrhymed. Each of the poems consists of a striking narrative drawn from Greek sources of some length, and for this the metro is not unsuited; but we hold that it is ill adapted for the purposes of the ode, which shows in itself that the original metre is radically different from the present remote and debased shape. The volume perorates, not unworthily, with the pretty story of Cydippe, or the Apple, told with those touches of humour which are always lambent in this distinguished author's writings. Cydippe is betrothed to a rich old merchant, but the goddess has destined her for the huntsman Acontius, and so thrown

the maiden into a deep trance. The merchant does not relish a wife who falls into trances, and proposes to cancel the arrangement.

'Proudly the Archon smiled, and tore the con

tract.

Chremes soon found a bride with fits less quiet; Then from her trance, fresh as from wonted slumber,

Bloomed out the maid and stood amid the flowers.

'Megacles now, sore-smarting at the insult Put on his child by the coarse-thoughted merchant,

Out from her suitors chose a grave Eupatrid, Grave as an Ephor schooling Spartan kings.'

Lord Stratford de Redcliffe has also joined the poets. We now require a new edition of the Royal and Noble Authors.' The great diplomatist's book is entitled Shadows of the Past,' and he tells us in the preface that for many years past poetical composition had been his relief amid the toils of office. It requires an effort to imagine the great ambassador, the terrible Effendi, whom Mr. Kinglake portrays, as engaged in the mild, quiet pursuits of poetry. Here, too, we will quote just a few lines-lines that rise into a solemn, devotional strain, though the cast of the entire poem rather resembles Pope's Universal Prayer:

⚫ While here we breathe, ten thousand forms
Of grace and radiance charm our eyes;
But Heaven's fair vault is swept by storms,
And nature fades and beauty dies.

For one brief burning hour of youth,
In life, in love, in joy we trust;
Another tells th' o'erwhelming truth,
That all we doat on is but dust.'

We now come to those books which, in an esoteric sense, may be called books of the season, inasmuch as they chiefly appeal to readers of the present season as reminiscences of past seasons. Three different works come under this category, namely, Captain Gronow's Last Recollections,' the last two volumes of Mr. Grantley Berkeley's My Life and Recollections,' and 'Draughts on my Memory,' by Lord William Lennox. The first little book is the last of an interesting series interrupted by the author's death. We say interrupted; for if his life had

been spared there would have been very little to prevent a succession of them. As a Guardsman and a Member of Parliament, Captain Gronow had seen a great deal of the world, when it was not such a busy world as it is now-much more lighthearted and gay, franker and pleasanter altogether. His last entry relates to the Derby of 1865, in which he dwells on the fact that the pedigree of Gladiateur runs through the purest English racehorses; and long before the Derby of 1866 he was taken away. Old Captain Gronowfor he exceeded the threescore years and ten-was one of the stronglymarked race of Anglo-Parisians. Who is not acquainted with that race which, scattered all over Paris, gather to Galignani's as their centre? No man knew Paris better in the days that were brilliant days for the Anglo-Parisians; but in these degenerate days, when the English Ambassador has become a sort of confidential clerk to the Foreign Office, and the great English hôtel is by far the dullest in the Faubourg St. Honoré, Captain Gronow had little else to do than stop at home with his family and write out his Reminiscences. The aged veteran lived the past over again; once more he became the careless Eton schoolboy, telling how Dr. Keats flogged the boys and Mr. Sumner spared them. Again he fought the great fight of Waterloo, which its few survivors cannot fight over again too often; and, as we are particularly glad to see, he tells his stories with good sense, good feeling, and good principles. There is always a charm in hearing about the Peninsular war, about the Waterloo campaign, about the occupation of Paris; and we readily hear, from a man who can tell us about all this, a good deal of gossip which would be rather contemptible on the lips of other men: the sayings of the Prince Regent, and of the great Beau; how a Guardsman carried on an intrigue with Lady Betty Charteris, in the disguise of an Italian organ-grinder; how a French marquis got invited to one of Mr. William Hope's parties by threatening to call him out if he was not asked; the scandals

and escapades of Alvanley and Waterford; the loves and the debts of the Royal dukes; the old stories of the Palais Royal, and the scandals of the Café Tortoni. Captain Gronow's French anecdotes have more authenticity than most of these anecdotes. Here is one about the Emperor-one of many such which we derive not only from the writings of Queen Hortense, but from many sources which attest the amiability of his character:

'Another anecdote, showing the good nature of Louis Napoleon, was related to me by the late M. Mocquard, with whom I was well acquainted. After leaving the Malmaison, Queen Hortense settled by the Lake of Constance, where the young Prince was constantly in the habit of relieving poor people by giving away his pocket-money. One day he observed a family in the greatest distress, but having no money to give them, he took off his coat and boots and gave them to these poor people, saying he was sorry that he had not any money for them, as he had given away the allowance his mother made him to some other poor persons who had just passed by the house; but he hoped they would dispose of his clothes to relieve their wants. The weather at this time was very cold and the ground covered with snow; the Prince, nevertheless, trudged through it towards home, and when near the house was met by Mocquard, who expressed his surprise at seeing him in that state. The little fellow, then ten years old, replied, 'I have given away my clothes to some poor people to prevent them from starving.' Mocquard added that the Emperor is never so happy as when he can relieve the distressed.'

The Emperor knows the keen luxury of doing a good action; but, unfortunately, it is often those who possess this sensibility, who love to make individuals happy, who are ignorant of the great principles which secure the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Captain Gronow tells with some pardonable indignation the story of an English gentleman who, having known the Emperor at Rome, supplicated for

employment in the imperial stables, and was named extra equerry. One of these stories appears, however, to be very improbable. Count Dtold Captain Gronow that one summer day, after dining with them at Chantilly, the Duc de Nemours proposed a stroll, and taking out of his pocket his false wig and whiskers said, 'You, sir, have no occasion to disguise yourself; but as it fell to my lot to be the son of a king, I am obliged to have recourse to disguise and strategy from morning to night.' Now the present writer knows Chantilly well, and has spent pleasant hours in wandering, time after time, among the glades and gardens, temples and streams, which once belonged to the great Condé, and now to the Messrs. Coutts. If the Duke went into the little village of Chantilly, at any other time than the races, we will venture to say that, despite the wig and whiskers, his people would recognize the illustrious master of the château; or if he only wanted a stroll, he might go a dozen miles into the forest and hardly meet a solitary peasant, against whom he would scarcely need articles of disguise. Several tales are told about embassy parties. There was rather a good story going about Paris a little while before this book was published, which its author would probably have included, save for the fact that he lived more in the past than the present. Indeed it would be surprising, if it were not so common, to contrast the accuracy and minuteness of Captain Gronow's earlier recollections with the long blank which the present reign presented to him.

It was

stated at the time that the personage of the following stories was Lord Cowley, but that statement was inaccurate. At an embassy ball an exquisite in a great state of prostration found his way into a vacant room, and internally bemoaned the exceeding slowness of the whole affair. To him enters an individual, whom for the second we will call Mysterious Stranger.

Prostrate Swell. Precious slow here. The worst of these embassy parties is, that they always are so słow.

Mysterious Stranger. You are better off than I am. If you don't like it you had better go. As the master of the house, I am unfortunately obliged to stay.'

Captain Gronow's story about Bishop Porteus and George III., although he says 'my readers will be interested in hearing the following,' is a very old one: we could mention two or three places where it has appeared. Here are a brace of very short stories which we should like to see verified, but, as a rule, Captain Gronow is praiseworthily accurate.

(a.) When the Grenadier Guards returned to London from Cambrai, where they had been quartered some considerable time, the first thing that was proposed by the officers was to invite their colonel, the Duke of York, to a banquet at the Thatched House, St. James's Street. His Royal Highness, in a letter full of feeling and good taste, in which he alluded to the gallantries of the regiment he commanded, accepted the invitation, and, as was the custom upon such occasions, the army agents of the regiment were also invited. After dinner, Colonel Townshend, commonly called the Bull, addressed the Duke, stating that, as he was then in command of the old battalion, he hoped H. R. H. would permit him to propose a toast. The Duke bowed assent, when the Bull bellowed out, 'I propose the health of Mr. Greenwood, to whom we are all of us so much indebted.' This toast was ill-chosen, for the Duke of York owed his army agents at that moment nearly fifty thousand pounds; but Townshend considered it a good joke, for he used frequently to boast of having astonished the Duke with his witty toast. Townshend was the brother of Lord Sidney. He was considered by the officers and men of the regiment to be intrepid and brave: he was unfortunately a slave to good cookery, which was the principal cause of his death.

(b.) At the commencement of 1817, the Duke of Clarence, bent upon improving his pecuniary means, decided on marrying a rich heiress. The report was circulated

all over England (where it produced the most intense sensation) that the Duke had, with the consent of his brother, the Prince Regent, actually proposed to Miss Wykeham, whose estates in Oxfordshire were large and of immense value. When the event was communicated to Queen Charlotte, his royal mother was outrageous. She flew into a violent rage, and with vehement asseverations (either in English or German) declared that her consent should never be given to the match. The law officers of the Crown were consulted, cabinet councils met daily, and after much discussion ministers determined on opposing the Duke's project, notwithstanding the opinion of one of the best lawyers, that 'a prince of the blood royal being of age, and notifying his intended marriage previous to its taking place, was at liberty to marry without the consent of the king, unless the two Houses of Parliament should address the Crown against it.'

The excitement among all classes was at its height, when the 'Morning Post' informed the world one morning that the Duke's intended marriage was entirely off,' H. R. H. having been prevailed upon by the Queen to forego his intentions. In this course Queen Charlotte was evidently supported by the rest of the royal family; and it was whispered that as an inducement to the Prince to behave as a good boy, the Queen, Prince Regent, and his royal sisters had subscribed a sufficient sum among themselves to pay off all H. R. H.'s debts, and to provide him with an increase of income for the future. Much amusement was caused at the clubs by a caricature of an old sailor, called 'the love-sick youth.'

Mr. Grantley Berkeley has just published volumes three and four of his Life and Recollections,' a very poor and imperfect sort of life and recollections, which cannot give much pleasure in the recollecting. The present volumes are incongruous and made up, a mere manufacture for the market. Last year Mr. Berkeley published two volumes of his 'Life and Recollections.' The work was not an unpleasant sort of

literature. It was a kind of afterdinner talk. Men will gratefully listen to any one who will enliven the conversation as they sit round the mahogany, and are not very careful about the quality of the wit, if it only elicits the laugh that helps digestion. The misfortune is that these laughs are becoming less frequent than they used to be. The clever conversationalists are discovering that it is better to talk to the public than to talk to their friends.

Art

Would you believe it, sir,' said a distinguished friend of the writer, 'I spent an evening with Gwho is the cleverest man out just now, and he never opened his lips. He was taking it all in and saving it all up for his next article. When I was a young man, sir, gentlemen would talk freely over their wine, and never took thought of reserving themselves for print.' There can be no doubt but Mr. Grantley Berkeley has told many of these stories over his wine. His veracity has been strongly impugned in several particulars; but he has probably told these particular stories over so often that he firmly believes that they are true. The disgraceful story about L. E. L. in the first series has been very sharply commented on by Mr. S. C. Hall in the Journal;' nor will Mr. Berkeley's rejoinder in the present volumes be looked upon, in all probability, as very satisfactory. Mr. Berkeley has quite forgotten the homely proverbs which tell how it is an ill bird that fouls its own nest, and advises that it is best to wash dirty linen at home. Those few persons who care much for the Berkeley nest and the Berkeley family linen, after reading this book should look at a wellknown pamphlet, which is a reply to it by the other surviving sons of the late Earl and Countess of Berkeley. In the first series Mr. Grantley Berkeley brought down the simple story of his useful and honoured career to the state of his health 'as leaves him at present;' when having objurgated Bournemouth on account of its excessive addiction to divine service, he found himself Sir Ivor Guest's tenant of a little shooting lodge, with plenty of shooting

and fishing, and two miles from the pioneer of civilization, the nearest postman. Mr. Berkeley knows a good deal about shooting and fishing; he is also an authority upon prize-fighting, being personally acquainted with the illustrious Heenan, and having committed a spirited assault on Mr. Fraser, the original publisher of Fraser's Magazine.' Moreover, Mr. Berkeley has a facile pen, concerning which his brothers, with fraternal frankness, quote the words: There are many people whose intellect and judgment would stand much higher in the world if they had never been taught to write. A whole swarm of absurd impulses cluster round the pen, which leave them alone at other times.' The public having tolerated Mr. G. Berkeley's previous volumes, or at all events having bought an encouraging number of copies, Mr. Berkeley has ingeniously spun out two more volumes about himself, with the help of reprinting some third-rate contributions to some third-rate periodicals.

So here we have no less than four big volumes about Mr. Grantley Berkeley and his belongings, the value of the whole being about that of Captain Gronow's last thin publication. We are very far from saying that they do not contain several good things; but it becomes an open question with us, as with the young gentleman in Pickwick' in his studies over the alphabet, whether it be worth while going through so much to get so little. Of several events here recorded, it was worth while having a contemporary account. Such was the Eglinton Tournament, got up by the last lord, a frank, kindly-hearted man, almost idolized by many Scotchmen -and, what was quite as dear to his heart, for so testifies a letter he wrote me during his vice-royalty, -equally beloved by Irishmen, among whom he was the most popular of Conservative Lord Lieutenants. Mr. Grantley Berkeley did not take part in the costly revival of chivalry at Eglinton Castle, for he avows himself, if not a disinherited, at least a poor knight, and of course, the frankness of this avowal

must conciliate sympathy for him. There is a good deal of sense in the following remarks, and we wish he had acted up to them :

'Supposing the affair to have been so arranged that there had been a chance of remuneration, as of old, I would have risked the upshot of it, and run my chance. I had entertained a fancy for going to the tournament in disguise, with no heraldic device or banner announcing my name, and to have pitched my tent as an obscure knight, desirous of entering the lists. Supposing that I were successful in the contest, then to have denied the chosen Queen of Beauty, and have claimed my right to substitute one of my own selection.'

Again, there is something interesting in the personal mention of Dr. Jenner, who used to live at Berkeley, and we only wish that Mr. Grantley Berkeley had told us

more:

'Dr. Jenner's house was on one side of the old town churchyard, and the high palings of the grove on the banks of the castle moat were on the other. His garden and our grove almost met at respective corners abutting on the graveyard, where it opens out by a stile on an orchard called the Little Park, which was the scene of the destruction of "ye game of red deere," when Queen Elizabeth and her favourite Leicester made their unconscionable raid upon my ancestor's castle and domain to which I have already alluded.' Dr. Jenner often visited Cheltenham. 'When that celebrated physician first went there, Cheltenham consisted of but one street, and the bright little troutstream, the Chelt, whence the town takes its name, meandered across the road, glistened in the sun, and, haunted by the emerald-hued kingfisher, lost itself in bosky wilds. Kingfisher, trout, and glittering pebbly strand, alike are gone.' The curious thing is that, having quoted with great triumph an approving note from Lady Blessington to himself in the past, he attacks her repeatedly and savagely in the present. One serious objection to this work is that he introduces us