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SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS.
W. MACKWORTH PRAED.
Of filthy trades and traffics:
I wrote delightful sapphics :
I supped with fates and furies;
A happy boy at Drury's.
Twelve years ago |-how many a thought
Of faded pains and pleasures,
From memory's hoarded treasures !
The glories and disgraces,
Of old familiar faces.
Where are my friends ?-I am alone,
No playmate shares my beaker-
And some before the Speaker;
And some compose a rondo;
And some draw pleas for John Doe.
Without the fear of sessions;
As much as false professions ;
A magistrate pedantic;
Beneath the wide Atlantic.
Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,
Does Dr. Martext's duty;
Is married to a beauty;
And Darrel studies, week by week,
His Mant and not his Manton; And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, Is very
rich at Canton.
And I am eight-and-twenty now
The world's cold chain has bound me; And darker shades are on my brow,
And sadder scenes around me:
With many other noodles;
And sip my hock at Doodle's.
But often when the cares of life,
Have set my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife,
When duns await my waking,
Or Hobby in a hurry,
Or Beaulieu spoils a curry:
For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby :
Or shiver in the lobby ;
From House, and court, and levee,
Just Eton boys, grown heavy;
That I could bask in childhood's sun,
And dance o'er childhood's roses;
Vast wit and broken noses;
And call the milk-maids Houris;
A happy boy at Drury's !
W. MACKWORTH PRAED.
Some years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way between
St. Marys' Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the Green,
And guided to the Parson's Wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lisson lath ;
Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveler up the path,
Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle : And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlor steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,
“Our master knows you; you ’re expected!”
Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,
Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" The lady lay her knitting down,
Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college, He had not gained an honest friend,
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge:If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth the traveler was to blame,
And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.
His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses; It slipped from politics to puns:
It passed from Mohammed to Moses:
Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line,
He 'stablished Truth, or started Error, The Baptist found him far too deep;
The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep,
And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.
His sermons never said or showed
That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road
From Jerome, or from Athanasius; And sure a righteous zeal inspired
The hand and head that penned and planned them, For all who understood, admired,
And some who did not understand them.
He wrote, too, in a quiet way,
Small treatises and smaller verses; And
sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble lords and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet or a turban; And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothing for Sylvanus Urban.
He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking: And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,
It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage:
And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus :
Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus ;
To steal the staff he put such trust in;
When he began to quote Augustin.
Alack the change! in vain I look
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;
The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:
You reach it by a carriage entry:
And pews are fitted up for gentry.
Sit in the Vicar's seat: you 'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose tone is very Ciceronian.
And construe on the slab before you,
VIR NULLA NON DONANDUS LAURA.
THE BACHELOR'S CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.
W. M. THACKERAY.
In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,