THE LITERARY DIFFICULTIES OF TORIES.

TT is impossible to read a publication like the National. Review, the new Conservative magazine, without perceiv- ing how heavily all Tories, and especially high Tories, are now handicapped in literature. Some of their strongest ideas hardly admit of literary expression, some are so hopelessly inconsistent with their party action that their spokesmen must keep them in the background, and others, though they allow of the highest literary development, would involve, or it is fancied they would involve, a fatal unpopularity. One grand root of Toryism, for example, perhaps the only root that can be trusted to feed the tree, is Content; and to express content attractively, or amusingly, or at any great length, is difficult indeed. A sigh of repletion is not musical, nor can it, however long-drawn, be made to delight the bystanders. If they have not dined, they are annoyed; and if they have, though they may sympathise, they are not thereby attracted to the sigher. They, too, might like to sigh, but they think of the man who yields audibly to the weakness as something of a pig. The poetry of political content is not extensive, or, at least, of content that covers all classes, and is free from the wish that impairs the Toryism latent in Tennyson's description of England,— that freedom may ever " broaden slowly down from precedent to precedent." Tories think it has got to the bottom, and want to say so. The most contented song io English, Mrs. Hemans's, on "The stately homes of England," and the miale-class homes of England, and the cottage homes of England, has still but few rivals, and rather lacks, if criticised by a discontented mind, the true lyric cry. There may be and has been much eloquence spent in prose over the British Constitution, but some- how, in our day it falls a little dead, and a frequent reiteration of the truth that the Constitution is a "holy thing" soon palls, even if it does not suggest Dickens to the irreverent. To make much of the virtue of content, as the authors of the Church Catechism, for instance, did, is, of course, possible,

for there is such a Christian virtue; but content, to be politically useful, must be accompanied in the poor by resignation. and political leaders are unable to preach that. They cannot ask people to " bear the ills they have," however much they wish to, while they are teaching that the first " ill " is a Gladstone Government, and that it ought not to be borne.

A fine sermon on Content could, no doubt, be preached in a Magazine, say, by a Rector with private means, or a Peer with culture, or an author who had succeeded beyond his own idea of himself—we heard one the other day descant on the wisdom of the book-buying public—and it would not only be readable, but very good reading for everybody; but then to prove the deduction, that, being content, one ought to scarify Chamber- lain, would require much artistic skill. Repose is the logical

inference from content. Much, age fear, will never be made in a literary way of content, though Tennyson did sing with such magical sweetness of the lotos-eaters, sweetness as of a poet from another planet where it is always afternoon. The British Householder has not eaten the lotos, and would resent

advice to eat it as tending to laziness, the one vice which he condemns without the faintest soupcon of secret envy. And yet, but for content, what would Toryism be in the world, or who would be its convinced votaries, heartily hating change? And how weakening it must be for the orator or writer always to be evading the thought which, nevertheless, inspires his energies.

It is as if the millionaire were condemned always to talk poli- tical economy, yet always to evade a reference to the utility and beauty of aggregated capital.

Of another Tory feeling, the fear of change, it is needless to speak, for, though it might produce very fine literature, the active leaders of the party have given it up. Their motto is no longer the grand one of the Barons, " Nolumus leges Anglia) mutari," but the poverty-stricken version, " Nolnmus leges Anglim mutari, Consule Gladstone." The Premier once disposed

of, they say they would be for all movement demanded by the people, would be for progress as much as Radicals or Mr. Forwood,

and would, with the alteration of only one word, inscribe on their banners Tennyson's embodiment of the democratic idea, "Let the great world swing for ever up the ringing grooves of change." There was literary capability without end in the old idea, as Asiatics who have accepted it as divine, know so well. What more philosophical than evidence of the danger, in a world like this, so full of complexities, so empty of foresight, of removing anything ? Who knows which is Indra's brick, or whether the ugly little anomalies in the mortar may not be the hairs which make of water and powdered limestone a cement as durable as Time ? What more pathetic than the cry, " Our fathers never did this thing, shall we be wiser than they ?" What more poetic than the worship of the past, or, we may add, more effective, for it is in us all, however wild our dreams; and

we would back Krapotkine or Patrick Ford to rage, if the rail- way "for the people " swept through his mother's grave ? "As it was, is now, and ever shall be, world without end," is still the most solemn of refrains, and unchangeability, without shadow

of turning, still the most supernatural attribute we can assign to God. There was literary foundation enough there, but alas !

it has dropped through. Tories dwell no longer on the past, but on a drab and decorous future, to which they say when Gladstone is gone they shall be leisurely advancing, and which is to be to the Radicals' Utopia, what Swinburne's "lilies and langnors of virtue " are to the "raptures and roses of vice." We are not glad of their change. Peace be with the old idea, the eventless, happy, leisurely world, where yesterday was and to-morrow will be as to-day, and man grew as the oak, invisibly and in silence, fearing neither sun nor storm. As

Proteus has sung, there is " an old wisdom by our world forgot," of which Tories might make much :- "Children of Sham ! Firstborn of Noah's race, Bat still forever children ; at the door Of Eden found, unconscious of disgrace, And loitering on while all are gone before; Too proud to dig; too careless to be poor ; Taking the gifts of God in thanklessness, Not rendering aught, nor supplicating more, Nor arguing with Him when he hides his face. Yours is the rain and sunshine, and the way Of an old wisdom by our world forgot, The courage of a day which knew not death. Well may we sons of Japhet in dismay Pause in our vain, mad fight for life and breath,

Beholding you. I bow and reason not."

it was a great idea once, and will be again, when Cranbrook has ceased, like a General or a shop-walker, to bellow " Forward !"

and Northcote has left off muttering on the charm of discontent, and the Carlton loses that endless murmur, now heard in its halls, of " Progress, with discretion."

But the worst fate of all is that of the High Tories, for they possess in fullest measure one of the greatest of literary instru- ments, scorn, and they are afraid to use it. If they had only the courage to tell us how they regard the mob, how they look on the low-born, what they think of cads confronting grandees, of that sea of mud in motion which Radicals call Democracy, how effective they would be ! They would give us bright sentences then, living prose, or it might even be, little as Mr. Lowther looks it, glowing verse. Think what Lord Salisbury let loose would say of Mr. Chamberlain, and how he would say it, and how trenchant that literature would be ! We wonder some Peer, with no constituents, no party, and no future—say, for example, Lord Sherbrooke—does not do it, does not pour out his scorn of that plain on which every thistle is a tree, and delight us all by embodying the passion which must be in a thousand souls, as Shakespeare once embodied it,-

"Cor. He that will give good words to thee will flatter

Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war ? the one affrights you, The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where be should find you lions, finds you hares ; Where foxes, geese : you are no surer, no,

Than is the coal of fire upon the ice, Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is

To make him worthy whose offence subdues him And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye ! Trust ye ?

With every minute you do change a mind, And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter, That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another ? What's their seeking ?

. • • • .

Cor. You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcases of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty !

Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts !

Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair ! Have the power still

To banish your .defenders ; till at length

Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels, Making not reservation of yourselves, Still your own foes, deliver you as most Abated captives to some nation That won you without blows ! Despising, For you, the city, thus I turn my back : There is a world elsewhere."

We wonder, if any man dare now utter Toryism in that honest form, what his political fate would be. Remembering Mr. Lowe's, we are not quite sure, and there are men from whom

more would-be borne than from Mr. Lowe. The mass loves sympathy, but has still something of the feeling embodied in Macaulay's line, " Rome may well bear the pride of him of whom herself is proud," and sometimes, when raging before the hustings, respects vitriolic scorn. At all events, we might

have vigorous literature from that side, but for the handi- capping. The leaders are afraid to speak out scorn, lest they should lose votes; and their journalists, however sincerely Con- servative, do not feel like Coriolanns, or hate the Plebs so hard, or think that only in the Patrician can political virtue be embodied. It is embodied in themselves also, and the reflection leads to others which have a weakening effect. There is some- where in London, we believe, a journalist left who is a true Old Whig, and could pour out Whiggery with force ; but then he is

not a Grey, and has a sense of humour which would disable him from playing Coriolanns. Austin would satirise him, Tenniel would sketch him, Courthope would make a parody on him, Carroll might put him in a new " Hunting of the Snark,"—and the end would be laughter, and not influence. The Tories have

fallen truly on evil literary days, and as yet we do not see that the keen weapon which Lord Carnarvon says mast replace alike sabre and bludgeon, Addison's finely-pointed rapier of gentle wit, comes readily to their hands. Perhaps it will; but as yet, the ownership rests, if with any one, with Lord Granville; and he directs it, too infrequently but yet with rare skill, against the men who, had they but the courage of their convictions, should be the masters of scorn. After all, is any change so great as

this, which no man made,—that the Coriolanus of to-day pours scorn in the name of King Demos, and withers the Patriciat away ?