Shall lift a mighty voice to save; The memory of the brave and good, Of" Christoval the great world-giver." "Throw not the world away, Boldest man and truest, Till we and they shall dare assay The hope that thou ensuest." LETTER FROM AN "OLD ETON FELLOW." My dear S You have fairly shamed me at last for not writing to you; but when you have an outline of my daily occupations laid before you, you will, I am sure, excuse what is a misfortune rather than a fault. You know full well that from the first day of my entrance at Eton to the last day of my pupilage therein, I enjoyed a reputation far above the merits of either my talents or application: and like one of those people who are vulgarly said to be born with a mouth that serves as a receptacle for silver spoons, in spite of doing some of the most stupid things that a reasonable being could achieve, I still to the last was denominated by partial friends a bit of a genius. In consideration of my 66 speaking" I was to go to the Bar. My presumed knowledge of theology was urged as an argument for Orders. My own inclination prompted me to be a gentleman at large. Behold me then at the present moment fluctuating between the choice of occupations, which seem to my idle fancy but a choice of evils, and sinking down into that desperate state, a provincial grammarian with some half-dozen plagues, by courtesy styled pupils. To give you an idea of our life, we rise at six, and having duly yoked ourselves to the mill-wheel of yesterday, round we go till my head is relieved from the concord of sweet sounds in my " pupil room," (I have thus named it by the bye, for the sake of "auld lang syne,”) and the anything but sweet invasion of concords, by an auburn (?) headed damsel's shrill note of intimation, that "breakfast is ready, Sir." Then, after I have satisfied the cormorant appetites for food, which reject my food for the mind as though ipecacuanha lurked in it, or as though they were being crammed with it on shipboard, back goes your wretched friend to the miseries of misrepresentation, muddling, and misconstruction, and the only relief he enjoys from the oppressive warfare carried on against common sense, is when a brief truce is proclaimed over his bread and salt. Imagine, my dear fellow, if you can, a boy coming to me with a letter from his governor to inform me that his son was a genius! Take my word for it that governors generally tell horrid lies about their "hopefuls," and the worst of it is that the poor men lie to themselves also. Now the genius, who, if he had been the son of Mr. Crummles would have become a " phenomenon," I must designate by the name of Tunney. It was stipulated that he was to be instructed in Virgil, and to my delight, he indulged me with some most original ideas of that mighty poet, of whom you have lately discoursed so learnedly in the pages of the Bureau. "such 66 'Talia fatur" came out in the vernacular as fates"-but as the boy rejoices in a fine Northumbrian burrrr, no doubt the turmination of the second wurd caused the mistake. "Stans celsâ in puppi," was converted into "sitting on his lofty stern," a piece of originality which I requited on the same part of the human vessel. "Auribus aëra captat,”—"He seizes the wind by the ears,”—caused me to blush for a poetic fiction on the part of Virgil, which no one but a thorough Munchausen could tolerate, so by his own elongated auriculars did I seize the offender, thus self condemned to a most appropriate punish ment. But, Momus, god of merriment, how I did laugh! How did my sides ache at his general examination! I asked if he would inform me of the names of certain sects of philosophers-and I received as an answer that that the sexes of philosophers embraced Epicurearns and Epidemics!!! "Most men are not wise," went as far as "Hominissimi," when I cut short the exercise of Arnold, and placed a delectus in his hand. In Greek his constructions did honour to his imagination no less than his research-dikatos was construed-how? think you-Why, "A white horse!!!!! and justified too, on the ground of his having found "æquus candidus" as its equivalent in the lexicon. Now this is one specimen out of six, and the boy who knows most was introduced to me as a backward boy by a very modest Mr. Tims. Confusion worse confounded now strikes my ears, but thank heaven! it only wants a quarter of an hour to our early dinner, and I escape from my toil for half-an-hour to witness the demolition of a Saturday's pie of resuscicated scraps, and a lumpy pudding, which will secure Tunney a box on the ears, if, as on last Saturday, he whispers the name of stickjaw to his next neighbour. I have given you a specimen of one day's work, do you wonder that in a week of six such days I find little time to write? By the way, Octavius Smith, a very jolly fellow, who was at Eton a long time since, is settled here, and desires to be remembered; he says something about an "article" for you, but I do not profess to understand his intentions. Is he writing for the Bureau? Puddletown, Yours, very sincerely, John Grimley. SONGS OF ETON.-No. I. 1. As we roam through this world, there are thoughts that come o'er us, Of the home of our youth, and the days that are past; And the cup that now sparkles so brightly before us Shall be hallowed the more that this bumper 's our last. The ivy, that round yonder elm is entwining, Will be green when decay strikes the heart of the tree, So in life will we circle each anxious repining With tendrils that spring, dearest Eton, from thee. 2. Then join ev'ry hand, and each heart be united For vows may grow irksome, and love once declining, 3. Ev'ry scene will crowd back on our fond recollection, But our hearts shall re-echo each boyish affection, And repeat their full chorus to souls like our own. And the toast we once cheered, and the wine that we tippled THE GHOST OF HERBERT STOCKHORE. SONG. Place not that wreath upon thy brow, Thy lovely cheeks surpass the rose, Then let the useless bauble rest, Go thou, in native beauty drest, To join the dance to-night! NISOR. |