V. True Bard and Holy!-Thou art even as one Sees where the springs of living waters lie! Thou mov'st through nature's realm, and touched by thee, THE INFANT AND WATCH. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. I. WHAT'S Time to thee, my merry Boy, That thus thou feign'st to mark his measure; And who would note the lapse of pleasure! As yet, thou canst not know its worth, Some mischief-working mood misuse it! Go to! Thou might'st not then divine But let a few short years depart,— Of hope and fear, of joy and woe, And he will then, unasked, impart Far more than 'twill be bliss to know! The hidden springs that stir mankind, That wring the heart, and rack the frame,- The Fury Passions' of the mind, Thou dost not even know by name ! IV. Long may'st thou be unwise as now For who would learn the way to weep!~ Long sparkle thus that sunny brow Nay, struggle not, my merry Boy, Time hath not aught to do with thee! "Twere vain to count thy hours of joy ; Then yield that glittering toy to me! MANCHESTER, MARCH 16, 1826. THERE is, perhaps, no period of life attended with so many interesting circumstances as that of leaving school; none, certainly, that is looked forward to with more impatient anxiety. We are then, indeed, about to take upon ourselves our share of the cares and anxieties of the world; we are then about to bid adieu to the scenes of our childish pastimes; perhaps to take a last farewell of some dear companion, whose future occupations will separate him from us for ever; and yet, freedom from the restraints of school, and the pleasure of being, in some respects, our own masters—the natural elasticity of the youthful mind, which care and sorrow cannot long depress; and novelty, the great charm of all mankind, the influence of which is at this age peculiarly strong;-combine to dispel the clouds of sadness, and to call forth the sunshine of mirth and happiness. At this period, we have just closed one volume of the Book of Mankind, and though Memory may drop a tear of regret as it recalls departed moments of unalloyed delight, young Hope soon veils the past in shadow, spreads before us a smiling future, and, with magic power, imbues with the glowing tints of joy the anticipations of coming years. If such be not the case with mankind in general, it certainly was with me. I had received the elementary part of my education in a secluded country town. I was to finish it at Oxford. With what feelings of delight then did I find myself within a few miles of that far-famed University! I had been employed during the whole journey in one long day-dream, and though I was perfectly sure that a very few hours would unfold the reality of the objects of my musings, my restless imagination conjured up a thousand fantastic ideas, which, in many instances, afterwards proved to be most erroneous, mere airy nothings, having neither a local habitation nor a name.' We drew near to the end of ourjourney, Tandem Tritonida arcem Ingeniis opibusque et festâ pace virentem. Oxford is situated in a valley in the midst of the richest meadow-lands, and nearly surrounded by hills, partly wooded and partly cultivated, to the distance of about two miles. The silvery streams of Isis and Cherwell pursue their winding way through this classic soil, and vegetation seems to flourish without the walls of Alma Mater as much as learning does within. As the coach rolled over the top of Headington-hill, a multitude of spires, pinnacles, and towers, arose upon my view in poetical confusion, and set off by the full-grown trees interspersed throughout the scene, raised my expectations to a very exalted pitch. They were however more than equalled on our approaching the High-street, which some of our tourists, have, I think dencminated the finest street in the world; if there is a finer one, it must, indeed, be magnificent. The tower of Magdalen College, plain in its neatness,' just beyond the elegant bridge to which it gives name, affords a remarkably strong illustration of the argument that the beauties of graceful proportion far surpass any thing which the most splendid ornaments could produce without it. From this point the street rises gently towards its farther extremity, and, forming a gradual curve, presents, as you advance, a successive and unexpected display of its component parts. The stately lateral fronts of Queen's College between which stands the statue of Caroline, the Queen of George the First, surmounted by a handsome cupola,—the broad structure of the University, with its twin portals,—the magnificent pile of All-Souls', whose light towers bring to our recollection the representations of Oriental architecture,-the twisted pillars of the porch of St. Mary's, with its strong and lofty steeple,— the top of the Ratcliffe library, a little withdrawn from the street,-the graceful spire of All Saints,'-and the little old-fashioned houses, aping, as it were, the gravity and antiquity of their superiors, who seem to take them under their protection, and look down upon them with a patronising air,— combine to form a scene, for the description of which, however the pencil of the artist may succeed, the powers of the pen are wholly inadequate. The coach stopped at the Mitre; and with as little delay as possible I proceeded to my college. And what sort of rooms shall I have?' was the first question that occurred to my mind. My ideas of every thing connected with the University were superlatively grand; it is not, therefore, surprising, that I should have pictured to myself a suite of three lofty, spacious, well-proportioned apartments,-a bed-room, large and healthy, and fitted up in the most commodious style, and a cheerful study, with every convenience for reading; my sitting-room would, I supposed, be an elegant apartment, tastefully furnished; a room, in fact, good enough for a prince of the blood. By the time I had concluded my anticipations of the splendour and convenience of my new habitation, I had arrived at the porter's-lodge of my college, whence I desired to be conducted to my place of residence. Two pair of steep, narrow, and winding stairs certainly annoyed me not a little; but 'what did it matter?' the contrast will exhibit my rooms to still greater advantage, thought I to myself. The man unlocked a door-it was an anxious moment-my heart beat high with expectation-he turned the handle, and ushered me into a small, shabby, ill-furnished apartment, about twelve feet by fourteen. I stood aghast! I was somewhat indignant. I fancied that I had misunderstood him. 'This must be my scout's pantry;-show me the rest.' This, sir,' he replied, evidently amused at my extreme freshness, is your sitting-room, and there is nothing more belonging to this set excepting your bed-room,' As he spoke, he opened a small door and led me into a closet, nay, a hole little better than a cupboard, which had barely space for a small bed, a table, and a chest of drawers. Imagine the feelings of the pilgrim when attacked by an enormous serpent, of Buonaparte when he found himself a prisoner in Elba,—of his keeper when he discovered that his imperial prisoner had escaped,—of the reader of newspapers when he finds the Herald amusing, or the Morning Chronicle without abuse of the Lord Chancellor,—of a traveller on hearing a cool demand of his money or his life;-imagine the sensations consequent upon any surprising or unexpected occurrence, and you may have some idea of the astonishment with which I received this intelligence. I could have almost cried for very disappointment. After all my lofty expectations, after my hopes and anticipations had been concentrated in this one point for so long a time, for them thus to end in nothing,—the blank certainty was perfectly excruciating. Amphora cœpit Institui currente rota cur urceus exit? When I was alone, and had somewhat recovered from my chagrin, I proceeded to examine the wretched place which I was to inhabit for three years. It was a garret. Its form beggars all description. Corners and projecting points, beams and cross-beams, a slanting roof, a sinking floor, and a small window in one corner, like a man with half of his head benighted, may be considered its chief characteristics; not to mention the shrunken door immediately opposite the little fire-place, admitting through its crevices such a blast as cooled you as much behind, as the dim blaze warmed and enlivened you before. My furniture might rival that described by Dean Swift; indeed, my attics seemed to have been singled out as the sick-ward for all the halt, maimed, or otherwise enfeebled furniture of the college. The aged chair that had lost a leg was receiving friendly support from its younger neighbour with a fractured arm; another that was minus both its hind understandings had dashed its head against the wall in a state of desperation; and the miseries of a chair without a bottom were no less worthy of commiseration than those of one of its brethren with a broken back; the table and the chest-of-drawers were in pretty tolerable condition, excepting that the one was ricketty, and the drawers of the other were all locked, and the key lost; the tottering reading-desk had declared war against books, yet it must be allowed that it was not in a very good condition for carrying on a campaign; the window-curtain might be useful for any thing except keeping out the wind and light; the easy-chair had cast one of its castors; the deserted book-shelves looked doleful and dusty; the carpet had been nearly all swept away, save where a solitary nail grasped here and there a small fragment; and the widowed hearth-rug had wept woollen tears for the loss of its mate. As for the smaller articles, the poker was in a deep decline; the tongs were afflicted with a stiff joint; the leaky kettle had lost its vocal powers; the unfortunate bellows were broken-winded; and the tea equipage had driven its last stage. It was, of course, necessary to entirely new furnish my rooms, and put them in complete repair; and, I must confess that, however terrible my disappointment was at first, I have contrived to make myself very comfortable and happy in them, and have persuaded myself that, though small, they are large enough for one person; that they might have been worse; and that I escape many annoyances, to which I must have been exposed in larger ones. Mundæque parvo sub lare Cœnæ, sine aulæis et ostro HOR. R. H. TO A LADY WEEPING. I. How bright is the tear in thy beautiful eye, When its sparkle divine is to sympathy given; And how hallowed the music that thrills in thy sigh, II. Then cease not to pity, sweet girl, for thine eye, Thy soul-telling eye, and thy bosom appear, This, more lovely when heaving a tremulous sigh, And that, brighter when beaming its glance through a tear! D. THE FIACRE. A SKETCH. You would imagine that a Fiacre dragged on but a miserable existence. No such thing I promise you! He emulates the great and the rich, and reckons the peer and the Elégant among his every day associates. At day-break he rises and crawls out of his stable door to see what sort of a morning it is. The deuce take it,' says he, yawning, it is delightful weather or else Thank God, we shall have a pelting day!" Are not these the lofty and patriotic sentiments of a rich speculator on perusing the public journals? Peace is proclaimed-alas! his countenance falls, and disappointment rankles in his breast. A rupture is talked of-war is declared and see! his eyes sparkle with selfish joy; for in the impending disasters of his country, he beholds only visions of personal profit and aggrandisement. With imprecations, the Fiaere drives up his horses; with taunts and curses he harnesses them to the carriage; and then, with furious and loud cracks of his whip, impels them to the stand. Thus, too frequently, does 'dressed in a little brief authority,' exert it but to gall and fret those who are subject to his influence; thus when crosses and disappointments have maddened him, he vents his rage upon the luckless wretches whom fate has compelled to truckle to his iron yoke. man A person is perceived at a distance, who seems to be looking for a coach. Six of them gallop up to him at full speed. He chooses the best, but he takes it by the hour, and now the Fiacre drawls from street to street at a snail's pace. So men are swift and and supple as the greyhound in their endeavours to obtain an appointment, and slow and supine as the tortoise when securely installed in office. The gentleman who has hired the Fiacre calls to pay a visit to a friend. On his return he finds the horses unbridled, and the driver in the alehouse; the picture of a government office when its principal is not expected for the day. The Fiacre now rolls on; a waggon heavily laden, passing too near to him, he is threatened with destruction. His dexterity, however, aided by the unmerciful use of the whip, extricates him at length from his peril, and, at the same instant, he himself overturns a light cabriolet, about the fate of which he gives himself no sort of concern. Is it not thus that the sordid and brutal worldling, ever ready to denounce and vituperate, when his own rights are in the smallest degree infringed upon, thrusts in his turn, the weaker to the wall, without thought or feeling? Nobody in the world enjoys more freedom in the selection of his associates in life, or at least for the day, than the Fiacre. At nine in the morning, for instance, he can choose, in Paris, between a lovely female memorialist, animated with the pure and laudable desire of freeing her lover from the conscription, or of obtaining an appointment for her husband; a curious foreigner rising betimes to make a day's tour to the Lions of Paris; a candidate for a vacant seat in the Academy, who has one hundred and thirty visits to pay, and to talk of the books which he has not written, but which he intends to write; and a Jew-broker, who coaches it about to exchange money for paper. |