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the abandonment of such a great being as man is to the loss and pallor of years of moneymaking-with all their scorching days and icy nights, stifling deceits or underhand dodgings, or shameless stuffing while others starve—and all the loss of the bloom and odour of the earth, and of the flowers and atmosphere-and of the sea, and of the true taste of the women and men you pass or have to do with in youth or middle age, and the issuing sickness and desperate revolt at the close of a life without elevation or naïveté, and the ghastly chatter of a death without serenity or majesty—is the great fraud upon modern civilization and forethought.'

What is wisdom that fills the thinness of a year, or 70 or 80 years, to wisdom spaced out by ages--and coming back with strong reinforcements, and clear faces, as far as you can look in

any

direction, running gaily towards you? All that a person does and thinks is of consequence. Not a move that a man or woman makes that affects him or her, but the same affects him or her onward through the indirect lifetime. All the visitations of peace or war, all help given to relatives and strangers, and to all shunned persons-all the selfdenial that stood steady and aloof on wrecks, and saw others take the seats of the boats—all offering of substance or life for the good old cause or for a friend's sake or opinions sake-all pains of enthusiasts scoffed at by their neighbours; all the vast sweet love and precious suffering of mothers, all honest men baffled in strifes recorded and unrecorded; all that ever was manfully begun, whether it succeeded or no; last, whatever satisfies the soul, is truth-only that person has no great prudence to learn who has learnt to prefer real long lived things.'

After this detailed survey of Walt Whitmore's prose preface, I need not, perhaps, say that I almost prefer it to his poetry, except such musical passages as occur in the word out of the sea, ‘in the song of the desolate bird -almost too long to quote, and, indeed, that one deserves a treatise all to itself. No one who reads that till they know it, can fail, I should think, to find music and rhythm in abundance.

In President Lincoln's funeral hymn try

• In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song:
Song of the bleeding throat !
Death's outset song of life--for well, dear brother, I know,
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou wouldst surely die.'

It is all beautiful, but everyone will find many favourite passages. This is mine-

Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving
In the day, in the night-to all, to each,
Sooner or later-delicate death-
Praised be the fathomless universe
For lise and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
And for love, sweet love-But praise ! O praise and praise

For the sure reminding arms of cool enfolding death.' How touching is his brotherly feeling and hope ! "I will unite the evangel-form of comrades and love,

For who but I should understand love, with all its pity, sorrow, and joy ?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?
I am the credulous man of qualities, ages, races.
I advance from the people en masse in their own spirit.'
• Here is what sings unrestricted faith-
What are you doing, young man ?
Are you so earnest-so given up to literature, science, art, love –
These ostensible realities, politics, points ?
Your ambition or business whate'er it may be ?
It is well. Against such I say not a word-I am their poet also ;
But behold ! such swiftly subside-burnt up for religion's sake-
For not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the essential

life of the earth,
Any more than such are to religion.
What do you seek so pensive and silent,
What do you need, Camerado ?
Dear son ! do you think it is love ?
Listen dear son—listen America, daughter, or son!
It is a painful thing to loye a man or woman to excess—and yet it

satisfies—it is great.
But there is something else very great-it makes the whole coincide ;
It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands, it

provides for all.

*

The greatness of Love and Democracy-and the greatness of

Religion.' • The hell of war—the cruelties of creeds'- are constant objects of animadversion. As to his own creed, he holds that 'the dead advance as much as the living advance, and the future (life?) is no more uncertain than the present.'

• What do you think endures ? Do you think the great city endures ? The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman; is it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.'

One more extract and I will have done. It is called 'Envy'

'When I peruse the conquered fame of heroes, and the victories of mighty generals, I do not envy the generals, nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great house ; but when I read of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them, how through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long, through youth, and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were—then I am pensive-I hastily put down the book and walk away, filled with the bitterest envy.'

I hope your readers will judge for themselves, as well as by my extracts, which I think need little interpretation or comment. Many of these I do not call poems, but rather poetic materialssketches for poems; if any true poet does sketch first, and then elaborate his subjects, Walt Whitman might so perfect many of these; but to my thinking he does not work the majority of these into poetry.

I think I have quoted enough to explain what was said of Walt Whitman, 'he is Democracy.' But the personal poems please me best, and have most also of music about them.

But after all I think you will agree with Mr. Rossetti that it is not Walt Whitman so much as America, and the future poets of America, that are to teach all men.

D.

Occasional Notes.

The Old and Present' foot-ball match will be played on Saturday, December 19th. All old fellows desirous of playing, are requested to send in their names either to F. R. Price, the College, Cheltenham, or to the Present Captain, G. Strachan.

J. W. S. Wyllie, Esq., is a candidate for Hereford, in the Liberal interest, one of his antagonists being Mr. Baggallay, the Attorney-General. Mr. Wyllie was the first Cheltenham College boy to take an Indian Civil appointment by open competition. At the time of his leaving India he was head of the Foreign Secretariat, having been appointed to that honour in 1866, by Sir J. Lawrence. We mention this as Mr. Wyllie thus gained the highest position, we believe, yet reached by any competition wallah.'

At a Committee of the C.C.M.S., the other day, it was determined that a Ballad and Carol Concert, similar to those of former years, should be given at Christmas. The open night'

idea, which does not seem to have been sufficiently understood, was definitively abandoned. Practice for the said Concert will in future be on Fridays, at 5 p.m., in the Modern wing.

Once more it is our painful task to record the death of an old Cheltonian. A few days ago we saw by the · Times' that Edward Kempson, Captain in the 26th Regiment (Cameronians), had died on his homeward passage from India. Some few among our readers will remember his bright sunny smile, his strong athletic frame, his genial disposition, which rendered him a favourite with masters and boys alike. For a short time (the Autumn half of 1853) he was Captain of the Eleven. He also was one of the Stewards of our first Athletic Sports, and (unless my memory fails me) was the winner of the 'Steeple Chase.'. He was one whose influence was always for good, in whose hands the honour of our school was kept unstained during his brief life.

If any small boy should wonder what has become of certain prominent members of Class 1, Classical, we would ease his mind by informing him that the India Civil Service candidates have been formed into a class called 1. C. If the same small boy should further wonder what has become of the Rev. C. Bigg, let him know that he has taken unto himself a room upstairs; his canopy he leaves to the Rev. H. T. Price.

Dr. Barry's two last sermons have been printed, and may be had at the booksellers in the town.

We shall leave off the absurd custom of putting the handles unto the boarding houses; we are about the only school magazine existing which does this. In future Mr. Boyce's house will be called Boyce's; Mr. Brooksmith's house, Brooksmith's.

We are told that in old times the number of fellows, not broken in the game, but disabled by sprains, &c., from playing at Football, was much smaller. Our informant accounts for this by the fact that there was never more than one big match a week, sometimes only one in three half-holidays.

Christopher James, i1th Wrangler, 1868, has been elected Fellow of Caius College, Cambridge.

Rowland E. G. Money has gained a Demyship at Magdalen College, Oxford.

Henry James, Esq., is standing in the Liberal interest for Taunton, and will probably succeed,

There will be no Theatricals at Christmas.

It has been found that there are circumstances which render Puntabout lively—the requisites are darkness and six balls to 30 fellows. But this is very different from the Puntabout of ordinary life.

Evening chapel on Sundays is now fixed at 5.0. p.m. instead of 6.45. By this means a longer Sunday evening is secured; almost longer, we should fancy, than would suit the tastes of inmates of Boarding Houses. We should think many day boys would be deterred by domestic arrangements from attending,

There is no need for any remarks on the Fives and Racquet Matches as yet played: the best men are still in, and no extraordinary new talent has been developed except G. Strachan, whose progress at Fives has been remarkable.

Football.
(From our own Correspondent.)

Cricket, as the author of 'Requiescat' anticipated in the last Cheltonian,' has passed away. The 'weeping willows' have been consigned to their long winter-home, and instead of the well-known click of the bat, familiar and dear to the heart of every cricketer, we hear the dull thud of the football, equally beloved by the football player. Not very many old caps are left. They areMODERN.

CLASSICAL.
G. Strachan, Capt.

E. H. Watts, Capt.
W. Lowther.

R. S. Steuart.
G. H. Browne.'

E. H. Oxley.
A. J. Loudon.

A. Guthrie. A. Baines. G. N. Wyatt, a prominent member of the Classical XX. in 1866 and 1867, has, by disappearing into the Sandhurst or Direct, won for himself a Modern cap in 1868.

The following promotions have been made :-Into the Classical XX.-J. F. Evans, R. E. Perrott, Mansfield, Torkington and Bullock; into the Modern XX., H. Brice, C. Bryden and Harrison.

The great match will no doubt be a good one, but the odds appear decidedly on the Modern, though we can hardly expect them to gain so decisive a victory as the Classical last year. The match

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