THE PRIZE POEMS. As will be remembered, in our September number we offered a prize of ten guineas for the best trilogy on the present political situation, the subject of each poem to be as follows: 1. What the Commons say. 2. What the Peers say. 3. What the People say. Our object in giving this subject was in no way a political one. Sunday Talk, as a magazine, has nothing to do with politics; but knowing that the political situation was a matter that would be discussed during the autumn "Round the Fireside" of almost all, and wishing to touch as closely as possible the everyday life of our readers, we thought it would awaken an interest that no other subject at the present time would in an equal degree cause. In this we have not been disappointed. In order to secure strict impartiality in our award, and at the same time to obtain an adjudicator of the highest literary skill and an acknowledged adept in critical science, we sent all the poems we received to MR. THOMAS BAYNE, Headmaster of Larchfield Academy, Helensburgh, and a gentleman whose contributions to literature are well known to the readers of Sunday Talk, of the London magazines, and literary journals. Mr. Bayne most kindly undertook the labour of adjudicating the prize, and we annex his report. The poem is printed in our present number. THE AWARD. To use the present for poetic purposes is difficult under any circumstances, but, when the theme is a burning question of current politics, there is inevitably less likelihood of a successful observance of perspective. There is hardly, perhaps, romance enough about the Franchise Bill to warrant the expectation, out of the movement regarding it, of any considerable accession to those martial lyrics which extend from the songs of Minot to the Jacobite ballads and the Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers. The poets that throw themselves into a political fray are too excited to idealise, and their performance, when it escapes rant, is apt to degenerate into mere abuse. Good party poetry is excellent, but it is as rare as it is difficult to produce. Unfortunately, the poems sent in for the present competition mainly illustrate the general rule, though several of the writers have done their very utmost, and not without a measure of success, to rise above the difficulties of their position. It is not that the majority are prejudiced, or that they willingly give up to party what was meant for mankind; it is that they fail to stand far enough back from the struggle, and that they have a tendency to versify columns of the daily papers. The poems may be conveniently grouped as follows:: 1. Those that are lacking in poetic idea and destitute of form; 2. Those that are commendable as to form, but lacking in poetic idea; 3. Those that have some degree of poetic insight, but inadequate form; 4. Those with an appreciable measure of both. There are in all 27 competitors, who must be thanked and commended for the trouble they have taken and the work they have done. Most of them have treated the subject quite seriously, though in several instances the tendency to witticism and production of parody has interfered with the gravity of the writers. Had such jovial treatment been excellent of its kind-had it risen, that is, towards the level of Shirley Brookes and Lord Neaves-it might have been subjected to contrast and comparison with the work seriously done. As it is, however, the writers have simply placed themselves outside of the competition. Apart from these, there are over twenty poems to be grouped under the above four heads. There is no need to enter into details, but it may be said that twelve belong to the first two, while the majority of the remainder come under the third. In the fourth class, besides the poem that is decidedly best, claims might be put forward for three or four ladies, one of whom, M. B., deserves commendation for moderation and modesty, as well as for clearness of poetic outlook and a certain delicate suggestiveness of expression. The best poem submitted is by Mr. James Strang, Alexandria, who has understood the conditions to imply a possible hundred lines in each section. Granted that Mr. Strang's interpretation of the terms is correct, he is fairly entitled to the prize. tendency to turgidity, and his rhetorical vehemence occasionally displays a slightly explosive character, but he has very fairly traversed the theme, in verse marked by correctness, variety, and vigour. It remains with the Editor to say how much, if not all, of Mr. Strang's poem should appear. It is pleasant to be able to suggest that all the ladies who have competed, and several of the gentlemen, should continue to cultivate the art of poetry. Larchfield, Helensburgh. He has a THOMAS BAYNE, THE CORNER STONE. As hard as rock, at which he bravely wrought Until at last-his work being done- Well done! He said; thou hast been fashioning the corner stone! A STORY FOR THE CHILDREN. WE all know how pleasant it is when a friend with an interesting story to tell happens to come in on a day when we are dull and tired of ourselves and each other. Well, I have found out a secret. There are friends all round us everywhere and at all times who have stories to tell, and very interesting ones, too, although they do not put them into words in the same way as ordinary people do. If you want to know the stories of these friends of yours, you must often sit quite still and look at them and listen. By and by you will find out that you love them; and then, one day, you will suddenly feel their stories come to you, and you will be able to repeat them to other people. Now I am going to tell you a story that I came to know in this way. It is about an old friend of mine, not even settle on me and tell me what is going on; as for building in me, of course that is quite impossible." And the poor oak sighed, and thought how sad and lonely it was to be old, and wished, and wished, and wished he could be young and full of leaves again. Just then a thrush settled on one of the leafless boughs, and proceeded to make an elaborate toilet. The oak watched it with trembling interest, hoped it would stop, longed to talk to it, and yet feared to drive it away. By and by the thrush seemed on the point of flying off, but instead of doing so, it put its little head on one side, and in a business-like way took stock of the tree. It flew round twice, and then went away, leaving the oak sadder and more lonely than before. He felt colder and more nearly dead, and his soul seemed to sink down into the dark, damp earth. But presently the thrush came back with its mate, and they both hopped about, and twittered, and consulted, and flew away, and came back again. And then, oh joy, they decided that there was a hole in the heart of the oak which was the very place for them to live quietly and bring up their family peacefully and respectably. Such a tremor of delight passed through the oak that he almost felt young again; it was so like the old thrill when he first began to put forth buds. How he loved these thrushes; how he watched the progress of their nest; how he longed to be able to protect them better from the rain; what delight he took in the spotted blue eggs, and how he gossipped with the lady thrush and cheered her when her mate was far away. Then, when the little ones came out, how the oak assured the parent-birds that in all his long experience he had never seen such beautiful nestlings, and with what fear and trembling he watched the passing urchins. There was one advantage in being old :-no boy ever thought that a bird would be such a fool as choose a dried up stump when so many leafy trees were round. "Ha! ha!" laughed the oak to himself, and looked down lovingly at his gaping lodgers. But the nestlings grew bigger, the feathers increased, and at last the great day came when they were to try to fly. What chirruping there was, what joy when the little ones succeeded, what sympathy when one fell and was nearly frightened to death. But when it was all over and the family were asleep, the oak suddenly felt a horrible pain at his heart, for would not they soon be going, and he would be left alone again. 'Perhaps they will come back next year," thought the oak, but his heart was full of sadness. In a day or two more the little ones could fly quite well, and liked better to be amongst the green leaves on the other trees than in their own hometree, so at last one day the old thrushes thanked the oak for his shelter and all his kindness, and the whole family flew away. 66 The poor oak watched them till they were out of sight, and then a dull weary pain seemed to creep through his fibres, and he did not care for anything. But suddenly he awoke to a keener pain; something strange was happening. There were men round him, and one of them was striking at him with a sharp, bright knife. The pain was great, but was a different kind of pain from what he felt in the morning when the thrushes went away. Further and further in went the axe at every blow, and when at last the oak felt himself tottering and dying, he said in a low, tender whisper "I'm glad the little birds are safe." having to support his long brown arms. His dignity was considerably hurt by finding that he had to look up to a wild rose-tree and some nettles which he had scarcely deigned to notice before. Even the primroses raised their yellow heads and peered over into his scars, but that was pleasant, for he had often admired these dainty ladies nestling at his foot, and was rejoiced to be able to see them better. It was not easy for him to begin to make acquaintances in his fallen condition, but when the first effort was over he found that it was not so bad after all. The rose-tree was not in the least triumphant; on the contrary, she missed the support of his strong trunk sadly, and was living in terror of the consequences of the next gale. The nettle had of course disagreeable things to say about 'pride having a fall' and people finding their own level.' Then she would wave about in the most aggravating manner, if ever so slight a breeze talked to her, knowing quite well that the fallen king of the forest would be reminded of his joyous tossings in the old days. But he had got used to the coming on of old age before the axe brought him so low. In a day or two the rose-tree and the primroses had heard all the story of the thrushes, and sympathised with their poor old friend when he sighed out that now, at all events, no bird could ever find shelter in him. One hot day, some time after the woodmen had carried off the greater part of him, he felt a curious tickling sensation all over, especially inside the hollows which were numerous, and he soon became aware that a colony of ants had picked him out as a suitable residence. At first he was irritated, but by and by he got interested in them, and was never tired of watching the restless little creatures that seemed to make such a fuss about everything. A great joy was in store for him, however. One day he discovered just peeping from the midst of the nettles a little sprout of an oak-tree which had sprung from one of his own acorns. Nothing could have pleased him more. This little one would grow up to fill his place, and birds would build there for many and many a year, and he would live a little in his successor, for as he decayed and sank into the earth, this young tree would gain nourishment from his remains. Time passed on, and the young sprout grew apace. As he became taller he listened somewhat contemptuously to the old stories from below and thought nothing of pushing his young roots through and through and round about his sire. But the pain was a joy to the old tree, and his pride and delight in this young, fresh, aspiring repetition of himself never ceased till the last spark of vitality had gone out of him. RHYMES FRAE THE REEK O' THE FOUNDRY. ANOTHER minor poet, and again a Paisley callant. From the preface, and from the amusing prose sketch at the end, we learn that Mr. O'Neill is an ironmoulder, and in bad health, His illness is to be regretted, although it has afforded him more leisure to tune the lyre. While he has handled anew such well-worn topics as "Spring," "Summer," "Autumn," and "Winter;' "Friendship," "Labour," and "John Frost," Mr. O'Neill has dealt with such recent incidents as the "Daphne Disaster," "Unveiling of the Tannahill Statue," and other local and domestic affairs. As a guarantee that the few pence required to buy the book will be a good investment, a short poem may be quoted 66 SCOTTISH PSALMODIE. I DEARLY lo'e the Scottish tongue; there's music in't tae me: I dearly lo'e the auld Scotch sangs, their pathos is divine; The hearts o' bearded men they wean awa frae sinfu' earth- An' bairnies yet unborn arise tae cherish their regard! A. K. H. B.'S TWENTY-SECOND VOLUME.' A. K. H. B. has just issued his twenty-second volume, the last chapter of which we had the pleasure of giving to our readers last month. It is brimful of the touching pathos, the bright sparkling humour, and the shrewd common-sense, of every-day life experience, which have given this charming writer his great popularity, and which, even with twenty-two volumes before us, makes us wish for more. Better Sunday Talk could not be had. We give one extracts: WHAT IS HERESY? or two There is no time to go into the metaphysics of the que3tion, What is Heresy? In the Scotch Church, and (in the main) in all the Scotch Dissenting Communions, it is doctrine varying from the standards of the National Establishment. Strange to say, there is difficulty in fixing what that is. A few years ago, some held it was heresy to say we should have organs and forms of prayer. A good many years ago, it was heresy to say that all are saved who die in infancy. Still there is a rough working idea current of what constitutes heresy-from the mystical and transcendental teaching of Dr. Campbell, of Row, to the rationalistic views of our greatest man of the last generation, who was commonly called by some folk "The German Rationalist." A good lady came lately to an eminent Edinburgh preacher, and informed him that her heart was broken because the clergy of the Church of Scotland no longer preached the Gospel. His answer was: "You mean, madam, they no longer preach what you think the Gospel, which may be quite different from the fact." But the old lady flounced out of the room. Here was the mark of the Beast, and hastened to inform her friends that the good man had turned Broad, STORIES OF DAVID HUME. 66 David Hume, walking late one evening by the dangerous Nor' Loch (now converted into the beautiful Princes Street Gardens), trying a short-cut, stuck in a quagmire, and could not get out. The old man was sinking deeper, and was in jeopardy when three old ladies, sisters, passed in the gathering darkness. He cried to them for help. Are you Hume the Deist?" they said. He admitted the fact. "Then,' said they, we will not help you The poor philosopher in extremity cried, "But if you are Christians you should help even a bad man. The sisters took counsel together, and then said, "We'll help you out if you just repeat the Apostles' Creed." There was no time to lose, so Hume began, "I believe," and went accurately through it all; and the old ladies pulled him out. I may mention that Hume attended church regularly. He would not shake the faith of plain folk round. And his friends were the Moderate Clergy, the easygoing men of past days. The traditions of Hume's amiability remain. His house stood at the corner of what is now called St. David Street. It was beginning to be built, and still nameless, when one night some young barristers painted on the end of Hume's house the legend-St. David Street. His old housekeeper burst in upon him at breakfast, exclaiming, Oh, Maister Dauvit, they are making a fool of you. Here they have painted Sanct Dauvit Street on the house." "Never mind, woman," said the placid philospher, "many a better man has been called by a worse name." 66 THE PREACHER. All his reading (aye, the lightest); all his converse with his fellow-men; all his own mental experiences; all his listening to the preaching of others (let that be confessed); every aspect of outward nature he sees and the course of the returning seasons-all these, if a man be a born preacher, go to one end. The greatest Scotch preacher of the last hundred years (you have all heard the name of Chalmers) told a special friend, who told me, that he lost the power of preaching (these were his words) when it ceased to be so with him. He said, that great orator, that for the few years (they were very few) of his pre-eminence, his sermons were never out of his mind; that when he woke at night for but a few minutes, next Sunday's sermon was his first thought. You see here is a work, such in its nature, that to do it to the man's very best-which, after all, may not be very good-it must be, "This one thing I do." And every man who undertakes this work ought to do it to his very best; while yet, in the nature of things, there is an inevitable peril and temptation in doing so. The pastorate-mightily enriches the preaching. Thin and vaguely lacking, and poor of actual life, is the preaching of the most gifted man who is not, or has not been, a pastor. THE STORM. "Is the dear Lord then angry?" A little child whispered to me, As the rain dashed thick on the window-pane, Over the lea and through the wood, "Look how the black clouds gather! List how the wild wind raves! Have the holy angels fled in affright? Can the dead rest in their graves?" What could I answer the innocent child? Was not my own heart, in anguish wild, Praying for one who, for aught I knew, Might be battling the wave with but chances few Ever to greet me again? THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S HORSE. IN the Contemporary Review for September, in the course of some rather slight reminiscences of the late Duke of Wellington, the Rev. Mr. Haweis tells an interesting story of the Duke himself, and the famous and favourite horse "Copenhagen," which the Iron Duke sat for 14 hours at a stretch at the battle of Waterloo, They had been looking at its grave, and Mr. Haweis asked-"Had this noble brute no tombstone, no epitaph?" "None whatever," was the late Duke's reply, "but if you will be the laureate he shall have one. "The next morning," says Mr. Haweis, "I was leaving. I had bid the Duke good-bye over night As I was at breakfast, a servant entered and handed me the following note from His Grace: "DEAR MR. HAWEIS-I shall swear you wrote this clerical epitaph if you don't produce something better. 'WELLINGTON.' Yours, "This was the Duke's epitaph "Here lies "Copenhagen," &c. God's humble instrument of brutal clay, There was. "Was there an answer?' Fortunately I had written down my epitaph, and had it all ready; so I sent it up to the Duke. It ran thus 'Here, full of honour and great memories, "I do not know the fate of my epitaph," adds Mr. Haweis. "I never alluded to it; I did not see the Duke again for some months. He never alluded to it but once, when he observed that he preferred his own, because it was briefer, and epitaphs should be brief. I agreed to the general proposition." And you, my reader, don't you agree with me in thinking that the Duke's was the better of the two? There is nothing that makes a man so down-hearted in his work of self-improvement as the constant and bitter experience that it seems to be all of no use; that he is making so little progress; that with immense pains, like a snail creeping up a wall, he gets up perhaps an inch or two, and then all at once he drops down, and further down than he was before he started. Slowly we manage some little patient selfimprovement; gradually inch by inch, and bit by bit, we may be growing better, and then there comes some great outburst of temptation, and the whole carefully-reclaimed soil gets covered up by an avalanche of mud and stones that we have to remove slowly, barrow load by barrow load. And then we feel it is all of no use to strive, and we let circumstances shape us, and give up all thoughts of reformation. To such moods then there comes, like an angel from Heaven, that holy, blessed message-Cheer up, man! We shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.' Every inch that you make now will tell then, and it is not all of no use. Set "A Year's Ministry." London Office of "The Christian Commonwealth," 73 Ludgate Hill, E.C.; and Hodder & Stoughton, 27 Paternoster Row. 1884. your heart to the work, it is a work that will be blessed and will prosper. My brother, is that your type of Christianity? Is that the kind of inspiration that comes to you from the hope that steals in upon you in weary hours, when sorrows, and cares, and changes, and loss, and disappointments, and hard work weigh you down, and you say "It would be blessed to pass hence?" Does it set you harder at work than anything else can do? Is it all utilised; or, if I might use such an illustration, is it like the electricity of the Aurora Borealis, that paints your winter sky with vanishing, useless splendours of crimson and blue? or have you got it harnessed to your tramcars, lighting your houses, driving sewing machines, doing practical work in your daily life? Is the hope of Heaven and of being like Christ a thing that stimulates and stirs us every moment to heroisms of self-surrender and to strenuous martyrdom of selfcleansing? 66 A GOOD TALKER. WALTER BAGEHOT had a great gift in conversation. His talk had-according to Mr. T. Smith Osler, one of his most intimate friends--just the quality which the farmers desiderated in the claret, of which they complained that though it was very nice it brought them no forrarder," for Bagehot's conversation did get you forward, and at an amazing pace. It was like "riding a horse with a perfect mouth.' He used to delight in expounding the bovine slowness of rural England. "Somerset," he used to boast, "would not subscribe £1000 to be represented by an Archangel." He narrates with great gusto an incident of the tenacity with which a Somerset rustic, during the Crimean war, stuck to his notion of what was involved in conquering an enemy. "The Somersetshire view," he says, "of the chance of bringing the war to a successful conclusion, is as follows:-Countryman'How old, zir, be the Czar?' Myself' About sixtythree.' Countryman-Well, now, can't think however they be able to take he. They do tell I that Rooshia is a very big place; and if he doo goo right into the middle of it you could not take he, not nohow.' I talked till the train came (it was at a station), and endeavoured to show how the war might be finished without capturing the Czar, but I fear without effect. At last he said, 'Well, zir, I hope, as you say, zir, we shall take he,' as I got into the carriage.' Bagehot was occasionally very happy in his phraseology. He used to speak of the minor people, the youth or admirers who collect round a considerable 66 man, as his "" 'fringe." He invented the phrase "padding" as denoting the secondary kind of article, not quite of the first merit, but with interest and value of its own, "With which,' says Mr. Hutton, “a judicious editor will fill up three quarters of his review." When he had not any particular opinion on a certain subject, he would say his mind was to let " in regard to it. When his mother used to try and persuade him to get married, he used banteringly to say, "A man's mother is his misfortune, but his wife is his fault." When the Spectator was more eager and sanguine in regard to political matters than he perhaps approved of, he used to say to Mr. Hutton that he always got his wife to "break" it to him on the Saturday morning, as he found it too much for his nerves to succumb to its views without preparation. 66 The sherry was bad," said he one day, talking about a dinner; "it tasted as if L-- had dropped his 'h's' into it." "Ah, you've got a church in the grounds," he once remarked to a proprietor. "I like that; it's well the tenants shouldn't be quite sure that the landlord's power stopped with this world!” |