THE COLLEGE.—A SKETCH IN VERSE.

The most remarkable part of the book, in a political point of view—that, in fact, which has produced in France the sensation already alluded to among all parties—now follows. We must quote M. Didier verbally:—

"Monsieur le Duc de Bordeauxoccupies the ground-floor of the chateau. He received me in a study simply furnished, which looks out upon the distant hills of Hungary. I remarked a collection of guns, and an arm-chair entirely made of deer-skin, the horns forming the arms and back. The prince was standing by a writing-table, placed in the middle of the room, with one hand resting upon his arm-chair. He neither sat down, nor bade me be seated, at first; and his reception of me was not exempt from a sort of solemnity. In a word, he received meen roi. Habituated to the visits of his partisans, and of his partisans alone, I was a novelty to him. He knew no more of me than my opinions, and some works, the matter of which could evidently not be to his taste. Perhaps he expected to find in me one of those furious democrats, who, to use a common phrase,mettent les pieds dans les plats, and supposed that I might attack him coarsely. Hence his reserve at first. It was very evident that he stood on the defensive, and waited to see me advance. His inquiring and somewhat strained look expressed, at least so I read it, what I have here said. After a few trivial remarks, the necessary preamble of every visit, and especially of such a one, he begged me to be seated, and the conversation commenced. As far as I can recollect, the following was the first serious remark I addressed to him,—'Monseigneur, I am ignorant, and God alone can know, what destinies are reserved for you in the future; but if you have a chance of reigning one day in France, which, for my own part, I do not desire, the chance is this: If, by any impossibility, France, exhausted by her experiments, at the end of her resources, no longer finds in the elective power the stability she seeks—if discouragement and misreckoning cause her to turn her eyes towards the hereditary principle as the most stable basis of authority—it is you who represent this principle; and in that case France herself will seek you out. Till then you have but one thing to do—to await events.' The Duke of Bordeaux listened to me with attention; as I spoke, his rigidity visibly relaxed; the ice was broken. He answered me without hesitation, that I had interpreted his own thoughts; that he never would undertake anything against the established powers; that he never would put himself forward, and that he had no personal ambition; but that he considered himself, in fact, the principle of order and stability; and that he would leave this principle untouched, were it only for the future peace of France; that this principle constituted his whole power; that he had no other; that he would always find sufficient force in himself to fulfil his duty, whatever it might be, and that God would then stand by him. 'If ever I return to France,' he added, 'it would be to promote conciliation; and I believe that I alone am able to effect that object fully.'"

"There was a sincerity in the words of the young prince," pursues M. Didier, "which brought conviction to the heart."

Although frank and open in speaking of his personal opinions, the Duke of Bordeaux seems to have been very reserved when speaking ofmen, and he evidently appears to have made M. Didier talk more than he talked himself. Upon this expression of opinions M. Didier makes the following remarks:—

"The Duke of Bordeaux is far from entertaining the principles of Charles X., and, to cite one example, the grandson repudiates all those forms—that etiquette, and that extreme respect paid to the royal person—which played so great a part in the House of Bourbon, and on which the grandfather laid so much stress. He disregards all these pompous inanities, and goes so far in this respect that he is determined, should he ever mountupon the throne of France, to have no court." And further, "The Duke of Bordeaux directs his attention to all the questions of the day; he studies them all thoroughly; he is acquainted with all the theories respecting labour. During his stay in England, he carefully visited its chief manufactories." And again—"Two questions principally occupy his mind—the administrative organisation of France, by the commune, and the social problem of the working classes. On this latter point he appeared to be imbued with social errors, and labouring under illusions. He attributes religious sentiments to the working classes of Paris, which they are far from entertaining, at least in the sense he attached to the words, and is not fully aware of the extent of their repugnance for thedrapeau blanc." It must not be forgotten, that M. Didier does not take into account the progress of reactionary ideas in the few last months. M. Didier states, that he told the Prince this bitter truth, and was listened to with calmness and placidity. "He would have made, I am convinced," continues the republican visitor, in a sort ofresumé, "an excellent constitutional monarch. The very disposition of his mind, with his natural qualities, seem all adapted to such a government; and his education has been directed with such ideas. Party-spirit represents him as anabsolutist; and such he appears to the crowd in the distance of his exile. The truth is, that there is not perhaps in Europe a more sincere constitutionalist than he—I should call him also a religious liberal, without his devotion degenerating, as has been said, into bigotry." He then proceeds with a statement of his conviction in the moderate liberal ideas of the young prince, "which his forefathers might have condemned as those of a political heretic." "Many intrigues," continues the honest republican, "have been set on foot in his name, but I would wager boldly that he is mixed up in none, that he is ignorant of all, would disavow all. As much as his mother (the Duchess of Berri) was fond of adventure, is he averse to anything of the kind. He would not have a drop of blood shed for him. I do not blame him, in this appreciation of his character—quite the contrary; I only mean to say that this merit is not great, perhaps, inasmuch as it is in him a matter of temperament." "He possesses," pursues M. Didier, "good sense, candour, an excessive kindliness of heart, and an uncontrollable, I may say, uncontested natural generosity. He is an honest man, in the full force of the expression." What greater eulogium could the republican pass on his political adversary? The only words of blame which he let fall may be comprised in the following remark. "He seems to want a directing spirit; and perhaps wants resolution. His is a cultivated rather than an inventive mind: he probably conceives more than he creates, and receives more than he gives."

In justice to Monsieur Didier, who might appear to arrogate to himself a degree of discernment which went beyond all probable limits, we must not omit to note his own remarks, when, in another passage, he speaks of his ownimpressions. "It would be a ridiculous presumption, or very idle to imagine, that I could have captivated the confidence of the prince, or penetrated his secret character. I am far from putting forward so ridiculous a pretension. What was I to him? A stranger; at most a curious visitor. He evidently only said to me just what he wished to say, went only as far as he intended to go, and made me speak more than he spoke himself. I should have wished that it had been the contrary; but I was, of course, not the master of the conversation." And again he says, "God alone reads the heart! To him alone belongs the secret of men's consciences. But still I think I can take upon myself to affirm, that all the words of the prince were sincere."

On the person of the young prince M. Didier has the following—and although there may be, in truth, something of the Lord Burleigh shake of the head in the extreme complication of discernment contained in the first phrase, yet the impression evidently made upon the mind of the republican, by the appearance of the exiled heir of the throne of France, bears none the less the stamp of truthfulness:—"His physiognomy reveals an extremeuprightness of heart and mind, and a lively sentiment of duty and justice, united to a love of all that is good. In person he is of middle stature, and inclined to be stout; but he is far from having that obesity with which he is generally supposed, and I myself believed him, to be afflicted. The fall he had from his horse at Kirchberg, some years ago, has left traces of the accident. He walks heavily, and, when once seated, has difficulty in rising; but they say that he looks well on horseback. He has silky fair hair, and although rather full, and marked with the Bourbon type, his face is agreeable, frank, open, sympathetic, with an air of youth and health—the air, in fact, of his 28 years. He wears acollier de barbeand a slight mustache. His eyes are of a limpid blue, lively and soft at the same time; he listens well, and inquires constantly: he looks at you so straight and fixedly in the face, that I should consider it impossible for any one to lookhimin the face and lie. As to himself, one look suffices to assure you of his veracity."

The following remarks about the habits of the young prince are not without their historical interest, and complete the eulogium forced from the mouth of the republican. "His life is far from being an idle one; before and after breakfast he reads several letters, several newspapers, and reports, often of a very voluminous description, relative to the different questions which are the order of the day in France; then he gives a few hours of the afternoon to exercise. He scrupulously observes his religious duties, attending divine service two or three times a-week in the chapel of the chateau, and every Sunday at the parish church. He writes with considerable grace, and his letters are remarkable for their correctness and elegance."

Perhaps the most striking, and certainly the most touching, part of the book of M. Charles Didier, is that in which he speaks of the Duchess d'Angoulême. It belongs not exactly to the subject of legitimacy or its prospects in France; but the interest attached to it is so full of pathos, and, in an historical point of view, so considerable, that we cannot refrain from quoting a few words of the author's account of his interview with this remarkable princess.

M. Didier seems to have hesitated about being introduced to the aged duchess. He was naturally scrupulous as to the effect which might be produced upon the mind of this victim of revolutions, by the presentation of one of those republicans, to the very name of whom, the disastrous calamities of her early life must have inspired her with an unconquerable horror. But he was led on by the Duc de Levis, "not without a degree of uneasiness," and his reception by the austere princess, in her plain dark attire, and in her severely simple room, was as amiable as could be expected from one naturally stern, reserved, and cold almost to harshness in manner. M. Didier appears to have been inexpressibly touched by her appearance, as well as by her kindly reception of him. It is thus that he speaks of the poor "orpheline du Temple:"—"All party hatred must be extinguished in the presence of the reverses of fortune she has undergone. I had before me the woman who has suffered what woman never suffered here below, can never suffer again. What matter that she be princess? She is no less the daughter and the sister, thrice proscribed! She belongs no less to a human family. This is certainly the most striking historical figure in Europe. She produced the most profound impression upon me, and I could not conceal the emotion that thrilled through me. My heart was divided betwixt respect and pity. I seemed to see before me one of those victims of fatality, immortalised by antique art. Only Christian resignation has impressed upon the daughter of Louis XVI. a more touching stamp, and raised her on this Christian elevation far above the types of antiquity." What a homage is this, complete as it is pathetic, from the mouth of the descendant of the enemies of her race! The duchess seems to have questioned M. Didier much about that country which he would have imagined she must have abhorred, but which, he tells us, she cherishes with love resembling that of a spaniel to the master whose hand has beaten him. He speaks more than once of her extreme devotion, and indeed of that of the wholegroup of exiles, to their fatherland. Another trait, which calls for respect and admiration in the aged princess, lies in the moderation and tolerance which M. Didier records of her. "She spoke of France with tact and reserve, made inquiries as to the religious sentiments of the people of Paris, and mentioned, with feelings of admiration, the death of the Archbishop of Paris on the barricades of June. His was the only name of which she proffered mention." And when the conversation was made to turn upon the Orleans branch, now exiled in its turn, she was silent about Louis Philippe, but spoke in kind and affectionate terms of his family, and of the Duchess of Orleans; and when M. Didier addressed her with the words, "It is impossible, Madame, but that you must have seen, in the fall of Louis Philippe, the finger of God," she replied in words characteristic of that type of Christian resignation, "It is in all!" "The answer," pursues the narrator, "was given with the utmost simplicity, and without my being able to discover in it the least leaven of bitterness." "It may be boldly asserted that there was no gall in this heart, which has offered, as holocaust to God, all its griefs and all its passions. Religion is now the principal occupation, the only consolation, of a life tried by unparalleled adversity." When still further M. Didier—indiscreetly, it appears to us—pressed the point by saying, "But you must own, Madame, that in spite of your Christian magnanimity, the day you heard the news was not one of the most unhappy of your life." "She held her peace, but with an air which seemed to say, 'You ask too much.'"

After giving his testimony as to the extreme politeness of the Duchess d'Angoulême, and recording instances of her boundless charity, "immense," he says, "for her present revenue," M. Didier has the following touching description of the apartments of the aged princess. "The Duchess of Angoulême, lives in the midst of thesouvenirsof her youth—and yet whatsouvenirs! Far from flying from them, she seems to cherish them; as if she found a strange funereal pleasure in filling each day the cup of bitterness, in order each day to drain it to the dregs. In her bedroom, which is of an austerity almost cloistral, she has around her only objects which must recall to her the tragic scenes of her childhood,—the portraits of her father, her mother, and her mother's friend, the Princess of Lamballe; near her bed, which is without curtains, aprie-dieufilled with relics sacred to her, such as the black waistcoat which her father wore in going to the scaffold, and the lace kerchief which her mother was forced to mend with her own hands before appearing at the Revolutionary Tribunal. She alone has the key of these sad memorials; and once a-year, on the 21st of January, she takes them out from the shrine which encloses them, and lays them before her, as if in order to live more nearly with the beloved dead who wore them. On that day she sheds her tears in the most complete retirement: she sanctifies the bloody anniversary by solitude and prayer."

On this subject there is yet more touching matter, which would lead us, however, too far. For the same reason we cannot follow the details into which M. Didier enters respecting the Duke of Lévis, the young Duke of Blacas, M. de Montbel, and other adherents of the exiled family: they must be passed over, as not of immediate interest. The following words, however, are sufficiently remarkable in the mouth of the republican:—"I found them all not only polite and well-informed, but most reasonable upon political topics. They are no democrats, assuredly, but they are men of sense, who have advanced with the progress of the age, and are fully aware of the new needs and new interests of Europe in general, and of France in particular. They are no conspirators; that I will answer for."

M. Didier is pressed to stop the night; but, hurried in his journey, only remains to dinner; and it is in the drawing-room, before dinner, that he is presented to the young Duchess of Bordeaux. This figure in the group of royal exiles, although of less importance as regards the prosperity of legitimacy in France, and of the attachment which the family may hereafter command, is worth recordingalso, as an interesting historical portrait.

"This princess," pursues M. Didier, "is daughter of the late Duke of Modena. She speaks French with a mixed accent, half Italian, half German, which reveals her double origin, as German princess born in Italy. She is, I believe, two years older than her husband. She is slim, and rather thin, but of an elegant figure, with beautiful black wavy hair, dark eyes, full of life and spirit. A natural defect slightly impairs the effect of her mouth when she speaks, which is a pity, for, with this exception, she is a very pretty woman. She wore a white evening dress, with naked arms, and a velvet scarf upon her shoulders. Her toilet was, perhaps, too simple—a reproach rarely to be made—that is to say, with too little of personalcoquetteriein it: it was easy to see that no Parisianfemme de chambrehad superintended the arrangement. Hers is evidently anature distinguée. I was told she was of a kindly, easy disposition, and well educated; she was evidently desirous of pleasing. Although a princess of ancient race, she appeared to me to be timid; but her embarrassment was not without its charm of grace. Proud of her alliance with the descendant of Louis XIV., she has the highest opinion of her husband; and her love for him amounts, I was told, to adoration. She thinks him irresistible; and, more impatient than he, but impatient far more for him than for herself, she is firmly convinced that he has but to show himself, in order to subjugate all the world as he has subjugated her. In this lie all her political opinions; that is to say, her politics are those of the heart."

It is to be regretted, perhaps, that we have not space for the anecdotes of the moderation and good sense of the Duke of Bordeaux, which M. Didier records, as collected from the mouths of his adherents, and which must necessarily complete, upon the minds of the great portion of the French nation, the impression made by the rest of the book. But we must now hurry on.

The dinner of the exiled princely family is described by the republican visitor as simple, although served with a certain state. He sits by the side of the Duchess of Angoulême, whose every word is one of "politeness, courtesy, or forbearance." "The Duchess of Bordeaux," he says, "continually fixed her eyes upon me, as with a look of wonder. In truth, the position was a strange one—a French republican sitting at the table of a prescribed French prince, and eating out of plate engraved with the royal arms of France!" The evening passes, in this little court, almost as in a private family in some French chateau. Billiards, tapestry-work, conversation, occupy the various personages. The republican again converses with the prince, who listens to contradiction with the utmost good-humour. When he departs, the whole family express, in their last words, their longing for that country which he is about to revisit so soon, but from which they are exiled.

We have dwelt upon the book of M. Didier at considerable length, not only on account of its historical interest, but on account of the strange circumstances which induced its publication, its startling result, the sensation it has created, and the ultimate effect it may produce in France in paving the way for legitimacy, by attaching interest and admiration to the person of its representative—perhaps, also, because it does honour to the sincerity of the author, and to the more honest republican party to which he belongs. But we have thus excluded ourselves from the possibility of giving more than a brief notice of the other book alluded to above, that of the Vicomte d'Arlincourt, although, in truth, it merits, in all respects, a far more extended observation, as a frank and straightforward expression of the sentiments of the legitimists. We must confine ourselves, then, principally to the circumstances which, independently of its merits, have given the little book so great a notoriety in France, and carried it on to the almost unexampled honours of a forty-eighth edition. They are curious enough in themselves, and bear some analogy to those which have determined the publication and the success of the book of M. Didier, inasmuch as it was the ardency of republicanism which forced upon the public notice a book, likely to forward the cause of legitimacy in France. The little work of M. d'Arlincourt is written, however, avowedly upon legitimist principles, and for the purpose of awakening the attention of the nation to the cause ofthe man whom the author looks upon as the ultimate saviour of the troubled country. This legitimist book, under the title of "Dieu le veut," written after the bloody days of June, might, in spite of the vigour of its language, and the justice and good sense of most of its reasonings and remarks, never have emerged so prominently from the inundation of political pamphlets which floods republican France, had it not pleased the government, pushed on by the clamours of a more violent party, to seize the work, and bring the author to trial. The affair made a considerable sensation in August last; the court of justice was crowded: the interest excited was great. The passages more particularly incriminated were, that which likened the republic to the plague; that which said the sovereignty of the people, when not a bloody truth, was a ridiculous mystification; and that which contained the words, "the Republic will have proved to be the necessary transition from a revolutionary tempest to a social regeneration. In the general movement of men's minds is written the happy advent of the chosen of Providence. He draws nearer! he will come!" After the defence of his own counsel, M. d'Arlincourt himself rose and supported, in a striking speech, the honesty of his intentions and his designs as abon citoyen, without bating one iota of his legitimist principles. The result was a unanimous verdict of "not guilty" from the jury. A burst of applause, which no authority could check, resounded through the court. It was from the common classes, also, that came the approbation: workmen shouted in the court, "Dieu le veut! Dieu le veut!" to the rhythm of the famous "des lampions!" and, on the morrow, delegates of thedames de la Halle, and of the artisans of Paris came, withbouquets, to felicitate the author on his acquittal. We will not lay an unnecessary weight upon this movement of a portion of the lower classes, which may arise from the sentiments of a small minority, although perhaps more considerable than seems to be generally supposed. The result, however, of the trial has been to spread the book through the country in its almost interminable editions, and thus to spread more and more abroad those legitimist feelings, which, we confidently assert are daily more and more gaining ground throughout France, and which may one day, in case of another revolution, that may be brought upon the country by the excesses of the ultra party, bear their fruits. At all events the destiny of these two books, in furthering the cause of legitimacy, in the one case contrary to the opinions of the author, in the other by the very means intended to check and even crush it, is singular enough.

Whatever may be written upon the dark pages of a nation's future, it is very evident that "Legitimacy in France" has made considerable ground among the masses. It cannot, certainly, be said to have been from the influence of convictions, or, in the general herd, from any reliance upon theories of legitimacy, properly speaking. It has arisen from disgust and distrust of other governments; from the sad experience of the miseries occasioned to the country by the present revolution; from despair in the stability of a republican rule, with insurrection always growling beneath the surface; from hope in a greater stability and confidence under a legitimate monarchy. Legitimacy, then, can but grow and flourish in France in the chances of revolutions; and if it triumphs, it will be by the excesses of its enemies, and the restless subversive attempts of the ultra-republican party. But again: who can say confidently that it will triumph? Still more: who shall dare, in the present state of France, to say that itshall not?

"Scinditur incertum studia in contraria vulgus."

Oft has some fair inquirer bid me say,What tasks, what sports beguile the gownsman's day;What cares are ours—by what light arts we tryTo teach our sober-footed hours to fly.List, then, ye belles, who, nursed in golden ease,No arts need study, but the arts to please;Who need no science, while with skill ye knowTo wield the weapons which your charms bestow—With grace to thread the dance's mazy throng—To strike the tuneful chords, and swell the song—To rouse man's sterner spirit to his toil,And cheer its harshness with a grateful smile.Thus my weak muse a bolder flight shall raise,Lured by the glorious hope of Beauty's praise.Soon as the clouds divide, and dawning dayTints the quadrangle with its earliest ray,The porter, wearied with his watchings late,Half opes his eyelids and the wicket gate;And many a yawning gyp comes slipshod in,To wake his master ere the bells begin.Round yon gray walls, enchained by slumber's spell,Each son of learning snores within his cell.For though long vigils the pale student keep,E'en learning's self, we know, must sometimes sleep—So morn shall see him, with a brightened face,Fresh as a giant, to resume his race.But hark! the chimes of yonder chapel-towerSound the arrival of the unwelcome hour.Now drowsy Lentulus his head half rears,To mumble curses on the Dean he fears.What though his gyp exhort him, ere too late,To seek the chapel and avert his fate?Who, when secure his downy sheets between,Recks of the threatenings of an angry Dean!Slow rolling round he bids his mentor goAnd bear his warnings to the shades below.Soon shall he, summoned to the well-known room,[24]Repent his recklessness and learn his doom,Within the walls a dull constraint to know,And many a midnight jollity forego.Far happier he, to whom the harsh-tongued bellSounds, as it should, his murdered slumber's knell.Cold he contemns, and, shuffling on his clothes,Boldly stalks forth, nor heeds his redd'ning nose.Straight o'er the grass-plot cuts his dewy lineIn mad defiance of the College fine;Breathless with hurry gains the closing grate,And thanks his stars he was not just too late.His name prick'd off upon the marker's roll,No twinge of conscience racks his easy soul,While tutor's wines and Dean's soft smiles repayHis prompt submission to the College sway.The service o'er, by Cam's dull bank of sedgeHe strides, while hunger gains a keener edge;(Though fasting walks I cannot loathe too much,Since such my custom, my advice be such.)For him, who straight returns, what horrors wait!How chill and comfortless his chamber's state.The crackling fuel only serves too wellTo show the cold it vainly strives to quell;While the grim bedmaker provokes the dust,And soot-born atoms, which his tomes encrust:Awhile suspended high in air they soar,Then, sinking, seek the shelves on which they slept before.Down bolt his commons and his scalding tea,Then off to lectures in pedantic glee.He notes each artifice and master-stroke—Each musty parallel and mustier joke;Snaps up the driblets to his share consigned,And as he cram'd his body crams his mind;Then seeks at home digestion for his lore,And slams in Folly's face the twice-barred door.This hour, perchance, sees Lentulus descendTo seek the chamber of some jovial friend—Yawn o'er the topics of the passing day,Or damn the losses of his last night's play;While well he augurs from the clattering plates,The glad intelligence that breakfast waits.From Memory's store the sportive muse may gleanThe charms that gild awhile the careless scene—The song, the anecdote, the bet, the joke,The steaming viands, and the circling smoke—The racy cider-cup, or brisk champagne,Long prompt the merriment and rouse the strain;Till Pleasure, sated of the loaded board,Seeks what amusement fresher scenes afford.Some prove their skill in fence—some love to box—Some thirst for vengeance on the dastard fox;Each by his fav'rite sport's enchanting power,Cheats of its tediousness the flying hour.Now the dull court a short siesta takes,For scarce a footstep her still echo wakes,Save where the prowling duns their victim scout,And seize the spendthrift wretch that dares steal out.Come, let us wander to the river's bank,And learn what charm collects yon breathless rank;The hope or horror pictured in each faceMarks the excitement of the coming race.Hark! o'er the waters booms the sound of strife;Now the hush'd voices leap at once to life;Now to their toil the striving oarsmen bend;Now their gay hues the flaunting banners blend;Now leap the wavedrops from the flashing oar;Now the woods echo to the madd'ning roar;Now hot th' enthusiastic crowd pursue,And scream hoarse praises on the unflinching crew;Now in one last wild chance each arm is strained;One panting struggle more—the goal is gained.A scene like this, what stream can boast beside?Scarce rival Isis on her fairer tide.[25]But think not thus could live the rower's power,Save long privation steeled him for the hour.The couch relinquished at the voice of morn,The toilsome exercise, the cup forsworn,The frugal dinner, and scarce-tasted wine—Are these no sacrifice at glory's shrine?Thus with new trophies shall his walls be graced—Each limb new strengthened, and each nerve new braced.Some idlers to the pavements keep their feet,And strut and ogle all the passing street.And if 'tis Sunday's noon, on King's Parade,[26]See the smug tradesman too and leering maid;See the trim shop-boy cast his envious eyeOn Topling's waistcoat and on Sprightly's tie,Bravely resolved to hoard his labour's fruit,And ape their fancies in his next new suit.But now the sounding clocks in haste recallEach hungry straggler to his College hall;For Alma Mater well her nursling rears,Nor cheats his gullet, while she fills his ears.Heavens! what a clatter rends the steam-fraught air—How waiters jostle, and how Freshmen stare!One thought here strikes me—and the thought is sad—The carving for the most part is but bad.See the torn turkey and the mangled goose!See the hack'd sirloin and the spattered juice!Ah! can the College well her charge fulfil,Who thus neglects the petit-maître's skill?The tutor proves each pupil on the books—Why not give equal license to the cooks?As the grave lecturer, with scrupulous care,Tries how his class picks up its learned fare—From Wisdom's banquet makes the dullard fast—Denied admittance till his trial's past—So the slow Freshman on a crust should starve,Till practice taught him nobler food to carve:Then Granta's sons a useful fame should know,And shame with skill each dinner-table beau.High on the daïs, and more richly stored,Well has old custom placed the Fellow's board:Thus shall the student feel his fire increasedBy brave ambition for the well-graced feast—Mark the sleek merriment of rev'rend Dons,And learn how science well rewards her sons.But spare, my muse, to pierce the sacred gloomThat veils the mysteries of the Fellows' room;Nor hint how Dons, their untasked hours to pass,Like Cato, warm their virtues with the glass.[27]Once more, at sound of chapel chime, repairsThe surpliced scholar to his vesper prayers;For discipline this tribute at his hands,First and last duty of the day, demands.Then each, as diligence or mirth invite,Careful improves or thriftless wastes the night.Stand in the midst, and with observant eyeEach chamber's tenant at his task descry.Here the harsh mandate of the Dean enthralsSome prayerless pris'ner to the College walls,Who in the novel's pages seeks to findA brief oblivion for his angry mind.Haply the smoke-wreathed meerschaum shall supplyAn evenness of soul which they deny.Charm! that alike can soothing pleasure bringTo sage or savage, mendicant or king;Sov'reign to blunt the pangs of torturing pain,Or clear the mazes of the student's brain!Swift at thy word, amidst the soul's misrule,Content resumes her sway, and rage grows cool.Here pores the student, till his aching sightNo more can brook the glimmering taper's light;Then Slumber's links their nerveless captive bind,While Fancy's magic mocks his fevered mind;Then a dim train of years unborn sweeps byIn glorious vision on his raptured eye:See Fortune's stateliest sons in homage bow,And fling vain lustre o'er his toilworn brow!Away, ye drivellers! dare ye speak to himOf cheek grown bloodless, or of eye grown dim?Who heeds the sunken cheek, or wasted frame,While Hope shouts "Onward! to undying fame."Glance further, if thine eye can pierce the mistRaised round the votaries of Loo and Whist;Scarce such kind Venus round her offspring flungTo bear him viewless through the Punic throng;[28]Scarce such floats round old Skiddaw's crown of snow,And veils its grimness from the plains below.Here, too, gay Lentulus conspicuous sits,Chief light and oracle of circling wits.Who with such careless grace the trick can take,Or fling with such untrembling hand his stake?But though with well-feigned case his glass he sips,And puffs the balmy cloud from smiling lips,Care broods within—his soul alone regardsHis ebbing pocket and the varying cards;While one resolve his saddened spirit fills—The diminution of his next term's bills.Lamp after lamp expires as night grows late,And feet less frequent rattle at the gate.The wearied student now rakes out his fire—The host grows dull, and yawning guests retire—Till, all its labours and its follies o'er,The silent College sinks to sleep once more.Thus roll the hours, thus roll the weeks away,Till terms expiring bring the long-feared day,When rake and student equal terror know—That lest he's plucked, this lest he pass too low.Though different epochs mark their wide careers,And serve for reck'ning points through fleeting years—To this a tripos or a Senate's grace,To that a fox-hunt, ball, or steeple-chase,—When three short years of toil or sloth are past,This common bugbear scares them all at last.The doors flung wide, the boards and benches set,The nervous candidates for fame are met.See yon poor wretch, just shivering from his bed,Gnaw at his nails and scratch his empty head;With lengthened visage o'er each question pore,And ransack all his memory for its store.This Euclid argued, or this Newton taught—Thus Butler reasoned, or thus Paley thought;With many a weapon of the learned strife,Prized for an hour, then flung aside for life.Ah! what avails him now his vaunted art,To stride the steed, or guide the tandem-cart?His loved ecarté, or his gainful whist?What snobs he pommelled, or what maidens kissed?His ball-room elegance, his modish air,And easy impudence, that charmed the fair?Ah! what avails him that to Fashion's fameAdmiring boudoirs echoed forth his name?All would he yield, if all could buy one look,Though but a moment's, o'er the once-scorned book.—Enough, enough, once let the scene suffice;Bid me not, Fancy, brave its horrors twice.The wrangler's glory in his well-earned fame,The prizeman's triumph, and the pluck'd man's shame,With all fair Learning's well-bestowed rewards,Are they not fitting themes for nobler bards?Poor Lentulus, twice plucked, some happy dayJust shuffles through, and dubs himselfB. A.;Thanks heaven, flings by his cap and gown, and shunsA place made odious by remorseless duns.Not so the wrangler,—him the Fellows' roomShall boast its ornament for years to come;Till some snug rectory to his lot may fall,Or e'en (his fondest wish) a prebend's stall:Then burst triumphant on th' admiring townThe full-fledged honours of his Doctor's gown.Yes, Granta, thus thy sacred shades amongJoin grave and thoughtless in one motley throng.Forgive my muse, if aught her trifling airSeems to throw scorn upon thy kindly care.Long may thy sons, with heaven-directed hand,Spread wide the glories of a grateful land—Uphold their country's and their sovereign's cause—Adorn her church, or wield her rev'rend laws;By virtue's might her senate's counsel sway,And scare red Faction powerless from his prey.And ye, who, thriftless of your life's best days,Have sought but Pleasure in fair Learning's ways,Though nice reformers of the sophists' schoolMock the old maxims of Collegiate rule,Deem them not worthless, because oft abused,Nor sneer at blessings, which yourselves refused.—U. T.

Soon as the clouds divide, and dawning dayTints the quadrangle with its earliest ray,The porter, wearied with his watchings late,Half opes his eyelids and the wicket gate;And many a yawning gyp comes slipshod in,To wake his master ere the bells begin.

Round yon gray walls, enchained by slumber's spell,Each son of learning snores within his cell.For though long vigils the pale student keep,E'en learning's self, we know, must sometimes sleep—So morn shall see him, with a brightened face,Fresh as a giant, to resume his race.But hark! the chimes of yonder chapel-towerSound the arrival of the unwelcome hour.Now drowsy Lentulus his head half rears,To mumble curses on the Dean he fears.What though his gyp exhort him, ere too late,To seek the chapel and avert his fate?Who, when secure his downy sheets between,Recks of the threatenings of an angry Dean!Slow rolling round he bids his mentor goAnd bear his warnings to the shades below.Soon shall he, summoned to the well-known room,[24]Repent his recklessness and learn his doom,Within the walls a dull constraint to know,And many a midnight jollity forego.Far happier he, to whom the harsh-tongued bellSounds, as it should, his murdered slumber's knell.Cold he contemns, and, shuffling on his clothes,Boldly stalks forth, nor heeds his redd'ning nose.Straight o'er the grass-plot cuts his dewy lineIn mad defiance of the College fine;Breathless with hurry gains the closing grate,And thanks his stars he was not just too late.His name prick'd off upon the marker's roll,No twinge of conscience racks his easy soul,While tutor's wines and Dean's soft smiles repayHis prompt submission to the College sway.

The service o'er, by Cam's dull bank of sedgeHe strides, while hunger gains a keener edge;(Though fasting walks I cannot loathe too much,Since such my custom, my advice be such.)For him, who straight returns, what horrors wait!How chill and comfortless his chamber's state.The crackling fuel only serves too wellTo show the cold it vainly strives to quell;While the grim bedmaker provokes the dust,And soot-born atoms, which his tomes encrust:Awhile suspended high in air they soar,Then, sinking, seek the shelves on which they slept before.Down bolt his commons and his scalding tea,Then off to lectures in pedantic glee.He notes each artifice and master-stroke—Each musty parallel and mustier joke;Snaps up the driblets to his share consigned,And as he cram'd his body crams his mind;Then seeks at home digestion for his lore,And slams in Folly's face the twice-barred door.

This hour, perchance, sees Lentulus descendTo seek the chamber of some jovial friend—Yawn o'er the topics of the passing day,Or damn the losses of his last night's play;While well he augurs from the clattering plates,The glad intelligence that breakfast waits.

From Memory's store the sportive muse may gleanThe charms that gild awhile the careless scene—The song, the anecdote, the bet, the joke,The steaming viands, and the circling smoke—The racy cider-cup, or brisk champagne,Long prompt the merriment and rouse the strain;Till Pleasure, sated of the loaded board,Seeks what amusement fresher scenes afford.Some prove their skill in fence—some love to box—Some thirst for vengeance on the dastard fox;Each by his fav'rite sport's enchanting power,Cheats of its tediousness the flying hour.

Now the dull court a short siesta takes,For scarce a footstep her still echo wakes,Save where the prowling duns their victim scout,And seize the spendthrift wretch that dares steal out.

Come, let us wander to the river's bank,And learn what charm collects yon breathless rank;The hope or horror pictured in each faceMarks the excitement of the coming race.Hark! o'er the waters booms the sound of strife;Now the hush'd voices leap at once to life;Now to their toil the striving oarsmen bend;Now their gay hues the flaunting banners blend;Now leap the wavedrops from the flashing oar;Now the woods echo to the madd'ning roar;Now hot th' enthusiastic crowd pursue,And scream hoarse praises on the unflinching crew;Now in one last wild chance each arm is strained;One panting struggle more—the goal is gained.A scene like this, what stream can boast beside?Scarce rival Isis on her fairer tide.[25]But think not thus could live the rower's power,Save long privation steeled him for the hour.The couch relinquished at the voice of morn,The toilsome exercise, the cup forsworn,The frugal dinner, and scarce-tasted wine—Are these no sacrifice at glory's shrine?Thus with new trophies shall his walls be graced—Each limb new strengthened, and each nerve new braced.

Some idlers to the pavements keep their feet,And strut and ogle all the passing street.And if 'tis Sunday's noon, on King's Parade,[26]See the smug tradesman too and leering maid;See the trim shop-boy cast his envious eyeOn Topling's waistcoat and on Sprightly's tie,Bravely resolved to hoard his labour's fruit,And ape their fancies in his next new suit.

But now the sounding clocks in haste recallEach hungry straggler to his College hall;For Alma Mater well her nursling rears,Nor cheats his gullet, while she fills his ears.Heavens! what a clatter rends the steam-fraught air—How waiters jostle, and how Freshmen stare!One thought here strikes me—and the thought is sad—The carving for the most part is but bad.See the torn turkey and the mangled goose!See the hack'd sirloin and the spattered juice!Ah! can the College well her charge fulfil,Who thus neglects the petit-maître's skill?The tutor proves each pupil on the books—Why not give equal license to the cooks?As the grave lecturer, with scrupulous care,Tries how his class picks up its learned fare—From Wisdom's banquet makes the dullard fast—Denied admittance till his trial's past—So the slow Freshman on a crust should starve,Till practice taught him nobler food to carve:Then Granta's sons a useful fame should know,And shame with skill each dinner-table beau.

High on the daïs, and more richly stored,Well has old custom placed the Fellow's board:Thus shall the student feel his fire increasedBy brave ambition for the well-graced feast—Mark the sleek merriment of rev'rend Dons,And learn how science well rewards her sons.But spare, my muse, to pierce the sacred gloomThat veils the mysteries of the Fellows' room;Nor hint how Dons, their untasked hours to pass,Like Cato, warm their virtues with the glass.[27]

Once more, at sound of chapel chime, repairsThe surpliced scholar to his vesper prayers;For discipline this tribute at his hands,First and last duty of the day, demands.Then each, as diligence or mirth invite,Careful improves or thriftless wastes the night.

Stand in the midst, and with observant eyeEach chamber's tenant at his task descry.Here the harsh mandate of the Dean enthralsSome prayerless pris'ner to the College walls,Who in the novel's pages seeks to findA brief oblivion for his angry mind.Haply the smoke-wreathed meerschaum shall supplyAn evenness of soul which they deny.Charm! that alike can soothing pleasure bringTo sage or savage, mendicant or king;Sov'reign to blunt the pangs of torturing pain,Or clear the mazes of the student's brain!Swift at thy word, amidst the soul's misrule,Content resumes her sway, and rage grows cool.

Here pores the student, till his aching sightNo more can brook the glimmering taper's light;Then Slumber's links their nerveless captive bind,While Fancy's magic mocks his fevered mind;Then a dim train of years unborn sweeps byIn glorious vision on his raptured eye:See Fortune's stateliest sons in homage bow,And fling vain lustre o'er his toilworn brow!Away, ye drivellers! dare ye speak to himOf cheek grown bloodless, or of eye grown dim?Who heeds the sunken cheek, or wasted frame,While Hope shouts "Onward! to undying fame."

Glance further, if thine eye can pierce the mistRaised round the votaries of Loo and Whist;Scarce such kind Venus round her offspring flungTo bear him viewless through the Punic throng;[28]Scarce such floats round old Skiddaw's crown of snow,And veils its grimness from the plains below.Here, too, gay Lentulus conspicuous sits,Chief light and oracle of circling wits.Who with such careless grace the trick can take,Or fling with such untrembling hand his stake?But though with well-feigned case his glass he sips,And puffs the balmy cloud from smiling lips,Care broods within—his soul alone regardsHis ebbing pocket and the varying cards;While one resolve his saddened spirit fills—The diminution of his next term's bills.

Lamp after lamp expires as night grows late,And feet less frequent rattle at the gate.The wearied student now rakes out his fire—The host grows dull, and yawning guests retire—Till, all its labours and its follies o'er,The silent College sinks to sleep once more.

Thus roll the hours, thus roll the weeks away,Till terms expiring bring the long-feared day,When rake and student equal terror know—That lest he's plucked, this lest he pass too low.Though different epochs mark their wide careers,And serve for reck'ning points through fleeting years—To this a tripos or a Senate's grace,To that a fox-hunt, ball, or steeple-chase,—When three short years of toil or sloth are past,This common bugbear scares them all at last.

The doors flung wide, the boards and benches set,The nervous candidates for fame are met.See yon poor wretch, just shivering from his bed,Gnaw at his nails and scratch his empty head;With lengthened visage o'er each question pore,And ransack all his memory for its store.This Euclid argued, or this Newton taught—Thus Butler reasoned, or thus Paley thought;With many a weapon of the learned strife,Prized for an hour, then flung aside for life.Ah! what avails him now his vaunted art,To stride the steed, or guide the tandem-cart?His loved ecarté, or his gainful whist?What snobs he pommelled, or what maidens kissed?His ball-room elegance, his modish air,And easy impudence, that charmed the fair?Ah! what avails him that to Fashion's fameAdmiring boudoirs echoed forth his name?All would he yield, if all could buy one look,Though but a moment's, o'er the once-scorned book.—Enough, enough, once let the scene suffice;Bid me not, Fancy, brave its horrors twice.The wrangler's glory in his well-earned fame,The prizeman's triumph, and the pluck'd man's shame,With all fair Learning's well-bestowed rewards,Are they not fitting themes for nobler bards?Poor Lentulus, twice plucked, some happy dayJust shuffles through, and dubs himselfB. A.;Thanks heaven, flings by his cap and gown, and shunsA place made odious by remorseless duns.Not so the wrangler,—him the Fellows' roomShall boast its ornament for years to come;Till some snug rectory to his lot may fall,Or e'en (his fondest wish) a prebend's stall:Then burst triumphant on th' admiring townThe full-fledged honours of his Doctor's gown.

Yes, Granta, thus thy sacred shades amongJoin grave and thoughtless in one motley throng.Forgive my muse, if aught her trifling airSeems to throw scorn upon thy kindly care.Long may thy sons, with heaven-directed hand,Spread wide the glories of a grateful land—Uphold their country's and their sovereign's cause—Adorn her church, or wield her rev'rend laws;By virtue's might her senate's counsel sway,And scare red Faction powerless from his prey.

And ye, who, thriftless of your life's best days,Have sought but Pleasure in fair Learning's ways,Though nice reformers of the sophists' schoolMock the old maxims of Collegiate rule,Deem them not worthless, because oft abused,Nor sneer at blessings, which yourselves refused.—U. T.

Some time ago, on the way from Glasgow to Liverpool, amongst the confusion and bustle in the railway terminus at Greenock, I was interested by seeing what struck me more by contrast with the rest of the scene, but, from old associations, would have drawn my attention at any time. Passengers, porters, and trucks were meeting from both directions; ladies and gentlemen anxious about their bandboxes and portmanteaus; one engine puffing off its steam, and another screaming as it departed. Through the midst of all, a group of six seamen, from a third-class carriage, were lugging along their bags and hammocks, dingy and odorous with genuine tar in all its modifications. Five of the party, of different heights, ages, and sizes, were as dark-brown mahogany-colour, in face, throat, and hands, as some long sea-voyage had made them, evidently through latitudes where the wind blows the sun, if the sun doesn't burn the wind. One was a fine, stout, middle-aged man, with immense whiskers and a cap of Manilla grass, a large blue jacket, with a gorgeous India handkerchief stuffed in its capacious outside pocket, and brown trousers, with boots, whom I at once set down for the boatswain of some good East-Indiaman. The sixth was a woolly-pated negro lad, about nineteen or twenty, dressed in sailor's clothes with the rest, but with his characteristically shapeless feet cramped up in a pair of Wellingtons, in which he stumped along, while his companions had the usual easy roll of their calling. The fellow was black as a coal, thick-lipped and flat-nosed; but if, like most negroes, he had only kept grinning, it would not have seemed so ridiculous as the gravity of his whole air. Some young ladies standing near, with parasols spread to save their fair complexions from the sun, said to each other, "Oh, do look at the foreign sailors!" I knew, however, without requiring to hear a single word from them, that they were nothing else but the regular true-blue English tars; such, indeed, as you seldom find belonging to even the sister kingdoms. A Scotchman or an Irishman may make a good sailor, and, for the theory of the thing, why, they are probably "six and half-a-dozen;" but, somehow, there appears to be in the English sea-dog a peculiar capacity of developing the appropriate ideal character—that frank, bluff, heartyabandon, and mixture of practical skill with worldly simplicity, which mark the oceanic man. All dogs can swim, but only water-dogs have the foot webbed and the hair shaggy. The Englishman is the only one you can thoroughly salt, and make all his bread biscuit, so that he can both be a boy at fifty, and yet chew all the hardships of experience without getting conscious of his wisdom.

So I reflected, at any rate, half joke, half earnest, while hastening to the Liverpool steamer, which lay broadside to the quay, and, betwixt letting off steam and getting it up, was blowing like a mighty whale come up to breathe. The passengers were streaming up the plank, across by her paddle-boxes, as it were so many Jonahs going into its belly; amongst whom I was glad to see my nautical friends taking a shorter cut to the steerage, and establishing themselves with a sort of half-at-home expression in their sunburnt weatherly faces. In a little while the "City of Glasgow" was swimming out of the firth, with short quick blows of her huge fins, that grew into longer and longer strokes as they revolved in the swells of the sea; the jib was set out over her sharp nose to steady her, and the column of smoke from her funnel, blown out by the wind, was left, in her speed, upon the larboard quarter, to compare its dark-brown shadow with the white furrow behind. At the beginning of the long summer evening the round moon rose, white and beautiful, opposite the blue peaks of Arran, shining with sunset. By that time the steamer's crowded and lumbered decks had got somewhat settled into order; the splash of the paddles, and the clank of the engine, leaping up and down at the window of its house, kept up a kind of quiet, by contrast, in spite of the differentnoises going on around. Amongst such, a nuisance apparently inseparable from and peculiar to steamboats, is a blind fiddler, whose everlasting infernal scrape, squeaking away on the foredeck, one cannot help blending with the thump and shudder of those emetic machines on a large scale, and considering it not the least element in producing the disagreeable phenomena so well known on board of them. One of these said floating musicians, who thus wander probably in imitation of Arion, and in revenge for his fate, was now performing to the groups near the paddle-boxes. Beyond them, however, by the steamer's patent iron windlass, there was a quiet space at the bow, where, in a short time, I perceived the figures of the sailors relieved against the brisk sea-view above the insignificant bowsprit. I went forward out of the privileged regions to smoke a cigar, and found the two elder ones sitting over the windlass in conversation with another seafaring passenger, evidently less thoroughbred, however. The rest were walking backwards and forwards to a side, with the quick rolling walk, limited in extent, so characteristic of the genusnauta—the negro turning his head now and then to grin as he heard the music, but otherwise above mixing in the rabble of already disconsolate-looking people behind. He was plainly considered by his shipmates, and considered himself, on a footing of perfect equality: his skin was no odium to the men of the sea, whose lot he had no doubt shared, whatever it might have been in the cabin. Their bedding was already spread under shelter of the half top-gallant forecastle at the heel of the bowsprit, amongst spars and coils of rope. Although sailors are understood to go half-fare in steamers, they no doubt preferred the accommodation thus chosen. It was amusing to notice how the regular, long-sea, wind-and-canvass men seemed to look down upon the hermaphrodites of the "funnel-boat," and were evidently regarded by them as superior beings; nor did they hold much communication together.

While standing near, I made a remark or two to the eldest of the seamen, whom I had marked down for the leader of the little nautical band; and it was not difficult to break ice with the frank tar. He was more intelligent and polished than is usual even with the superior class of his vocation, having seen more countries of the globe, and their peculiarities, than would set up a dozen writers of travels. They had all sailed together in the same vessels for several voyages: had been last to Calcutta, Singapore, and Canton, in a large Liverpool Indiaman, to which they were returning after a trip, during the interval, on some affair of the boatswain's at Glasgow; and, curiously enough, they had made a cruise up Loch Lomond, none of them having seen a fresh-water lake of any size before. In the mean time, while the negro passed up and down with his companions before me, I had been remarking that his naked breast, seen through the half-open check shirt, was tattooed over with a singular device, in conspicuous red and blue colours: indeed, without something or other of the sort he could scarcely have been a sailor, for the barbarians of the sea and those of the American forest have a good deal in common. This peculiar ornament of the sable young mariner I at length observed upon to the boatswain. "Jack Moonlight!" said the seaman, turning round, "come here, my son: show the gentleman your papers, will ye?" The black grinned, looked flattered, as I thought, and, opening his shirt, revealed to me the whole of his insignia. In the middle was what appeared meant for a broken ring-bolt; above that a crown; below an anchor; on one side the broad arrow of the dock-yard, and on the other the figures of 1838. "My sartif'cates, sar, is dat!" said the negro, showing his white teeth. "That's his figure-head, sir," said one of the younger sailors, "but he's got a different mark abaft, ye know, Mr Wilson!" "Never mind, Dick," said the boatswain; "the one scores out the other, my lad." The black looked grave again, and they resumed their walk. "What's his name, did you say?" I inquired,—"Moonlight?" "Yes, sir; Jack Moonlight it is."Ut lucus a non lucendo, thought I: rather a preternatural moonlight—a sort ofdark-lantern!"Why, who christened him that?" I said. "Well, sir," replied the boatswain, "the whole ship's company, I think: the second mate threw a ship's-bucket of gulf-stream water over his head, too, for a blessing; and the black cook, being skilled that way, gave him the marks. Jack is his christen name, sir—Moonlightis what we call his on-christen one." "There's a entire yarn about it, sir," remarked the other sailor. "I wish you would tell it me!" said I to the boatswain, seating myself on the windlass, while his two companions looked to him with an expression of the same desire. "Why, sir," said the bluff foremast officer, hitching up his trousers, and looking first at one boot and then at the other, "I'm not the best hand myself at laying up the strands of a matter; but however, as I was first whistle in the concern, why, you shall have the rights of it. You see, sir," continued he, "we were lying at that time inside the Havannah, opposight the Mole—the Mary Jane of Bristol, Captain Drew, a ship o' seven hundred tons. 'Twas in the year '38, I think, Tom?" "Ay, ay, Mr Wilson," replied the other sailor, "'tis logged correct enough on Jack Moonlight's breast." "She was round from Jamaica for some little matter to fill up," continued the boatswain, "so we didn't leave the cable long betwixt wind and water; but, two nights before the Mary Jane sailed, a large Portugee schooner came in, and brought up within thirty fathoms of our starboard quarter, slam on to us, so as we looked into her cabin windows, but nothing else. She'd got the American flag flying, and a Yankee mate that answered sometimes, 'twas said, for the skipper; but by the looks of her, and a large barracoon being a'most right in a line with her bowsprit, we hadn't no doubt what she was after. The first night, by the lights and the noise, we considered they landed a pretty few score of blacks, fresh from the Guinea coast and a stew in the middle passage. And all the time there was the Spanish guard-boats, and the court sitting every few days to look after such tricks, and saying they kept a watch the devil himself couldn't shirk. There was a British cruiser off the Floridas, too, but we reckoned she'd been blown up the Gulf by a hurricane the morning before. Next night was bright moonlight, so they were all quiet till two bells of the third watch; then they began to ship off theirbalesagain, as they call 'em—the moon being on the set, and the schooner in a shadow from the ware-houses. 'Twas all of a sort o' smothered bustle aboard of her, for the sailmaker and I was keeping our hour of the anchor-watch. I was only rated able seaman at that time in the Mary Jane. Well, the shadow of the schooner came almost as far as the currents about our rudder, and I was looking over the quarter, when I thought I saw a trail shining in it, as if something was swimming towards us. 'Sailmaker,' says I, 'is that the shark, d'ye think, that they say is fed alongside of one o' them slavers here for a sentry?' 'Where?' said the sailmaker, and 'Look,' says I. Just that moment what did I see but the woolly black head of a nigger come out into the stroak of white water, 'twixt our counter and the schooner's shadow, swimming as quiet as possible to get round into ours! 'Keep quiet, mate,' I said; 'don't frighten the poor fellow! He's contrived to slink off, I'll bet you, in the row!' Next we heard him scrambling up into the mizen chains, then his head peeps over the bulwarks, but neither of us turned about, so he crept along to the forecastle, where the scuttle was off, and the men all fast in their hammocks. Down he dives in a moment. The sailmaker and I slipped along to see what he'd do. Right under the fok'sle ladder was the trap of the cook's coal-hole, with a ring-bolt in it for lifting; and just when we looked over, there was the nigger, as naked as ye please, a heaving of it up to stow himself away, without asking where. As soon as he was gone, and the trap closed, 'Why,' said the sailmaker, 'he's but a boy.' 'He's a smart chap, though, sure enough, sailmaker!' says I. 'But what pauls me, is how quick he picked out the fittest berth in the ship. Why, old Dido won't know but what it's his wife Nancy's son, all blacked over with the coals!' 'Well, bo',' says the sailmaker, laughing, 'we mustn't let theblack doctor get down amongst his gear, on no account, till the ship's clear away to sea!'Doctor, you know, sir—that's what we call the cook at sea. 'Never fear, mate,' says I, 'I'll manage old Dido myself, else he'd blow the whole concern amongst them confounded planters in the cabin.' This Dido, you must understand, sir, was the black cook of the Mary Jane: his name, by rights, was Di'dorus Thomson; but he'd been cook's mate of the Dido frigate for two or three years before, and always called himself Dido—though I've heard 'twas a woman's name instead of a man's. He was a Yankee nigger, as black as his own coals, and had married a Bristol woman. She had one son, but he was as white as herself; so 'twas a joke in the ship against old Dido, how he'd contrived to wash his youngster so clean, and take all the dirt on himself. We run the rig on him about his horns, too, and the white skin under his paint, till the poor fellow was afraid to look in a glass for fear of seeing the devil.

"Next morning, before we began to get up anchor, the cook turns out of his hammock at six o'clock to light the galley fire, and down he comes again to the forecastle to get coals out of his hold. 'Twas just alongside of my hammock, so I looked over, and says I, 'Hullo, doctor! hold on a minute till I give ye a bit of advice.' 'Mine yar own bus'ness, Jack Wilson,' says the cross-grained old beggar, as he was. 'Dido,' says I, 'who d'ye think I see goin' down your trap last night?' 'Golly!' says he, 'don't know; who was dat, Jack—eh?' and he lets go of the trap-lid. 'Why, Dido,' I told him, ''twas the devil himself!' 'O Lard!' says the nigger, giving a jump, 'what dat gen'leman want dere? Steal coal for bad place! O Lard!—Hish!' says he, whispering into my hammock, 'tell me, Jack Wilson, he black or white—eh?' 'Oh, black!' I said; 'as black as the slaver astarn.' 'O Lard! O Lard! black man's own dibble!' says old Dido; 'what's I to do for cap'en's breakfast, Jack!' 'Why, see if you haven't a few chips o' wood, doctor,' says I, 'till we get out o' this infernal port. Don't they know how to lay the old un among your folks in the States, Dido?' I said, for I'd seen the thing tried. 'Golly! yis!' says the nigger; 'leave some bake yam on stone, with little rum in de pumpkin—'at's how to do!' 'Very good!' says I; 'well, whatever you've got handy, Dido, lower it down to him, and I daresay he'll clear out by to-morrow.' 'Why, what the dibble, Jack!' says he again, scratching his woolly head, 'feed him in 'e ship, won't he stay—eh?' 'Oh, for that matter, Dido,' says I, 'just you send down a sample of the ship's biscuit, with a fid of hard junk, and d—me if he stay long!' A good laugh I had, too, in my hammock, to see the cook follow my advice: he daren't open his hatch more than enough to shove down a line with some grub at the end of it, as much as would have provisioned half a dozen; so I knew there was a stopper clapped on the spot for that day.

"When we began to get up anchor, a boat belonging to the schooner pulled round us, and they seemed to want to look through and through us, for them slavers has a nat'ral avarsion to an English ship. They gave a squint or two at old black Dido, and he swore at 'em in exchange for it like a trooper: 'tis hard to say, for a good slack jaw, and all the dirty abuse afloat, whether a Yankee nigger, or a Billingsgate fishwoman, or a Plymouth Point lady, is the worst to stand. I do believe, if we'd been an hour later of sailing, they'd have had a search-warrant aboard of us, with a couple of Spanish guardos, and either pretended they'd lost a fair-bought slave, or got us perhaps condemned for the very thing they were themselves. However, off we went, and by the first dog-watch we'd dropped the land to sou'-west, with stunsails on the larboard side, and the breeze on our quarter.

"Next morning again the black cook gives me a shake in my hammock, and says he, 'Mus' have some coal now, Jack; he gone now, surely—eh, lad?' 'Go to the devil, you black fool,' says I, 'can't ye let a fellow sleep out his watch without doing your work for you?' 'O Golly,' says the cook in a rage, 'I sarve you out for dis, you damn tarry black-guard! Don't b'lieb no dibble ever dere! I water you tea dis blessedmornin' for dis!' 'Look out for squalls, then, doctor,' says I; and he lifts the trap, and began to go down the ladder, shaking his black fist at me. 'Good b'ye, Dido!' says I, 'make my respects to the old un!' 'O you darty willain!' he sings out from the hole; and then I heard him knocking about amongst his lumber, till all of a sudden he gave a roar. Up springs the young nigger from under hatches, up the ladder and through the trap, then up the fok'sle steps again, and out on deck, and I heard him running aft to the quarter-deck, where the mate was singing out to set another stunsail. Down fell the trap-lid over the coal-hole, and old Dido was caught like a mouse. If it hadn't been for our breakfast, I daresay we'd have left him there for a spell; but when the doctor got out he was as cowed as you please. 'Jack Wilson,' says he to me, 'you say quite right—him black dibble dere sure 'naff, Jack! see him go up in flash 'o fire out of de coal, den all as dark as —— Hullo, 'mates,' says he, 'you laugh, eh? Bery funny though, too—ho-ho-ho!' so he turned to grinning at it till the tears ran out of the big whites of his eyes. 'What does the parson say, doctor?' asks an old salt out of his hammock—'stick close to the devil, and he'll flee from ye!' 'Ho-ho-ho!' roars old Dido; 'bery good—ho-ho-ho!' says he; 'old dibble not so bery frightenful after all, now I see he right black!' 'I say, though, old boy,' puts in the foremastman again, 'I doesn't like to hear ye laugh at the devil that way—ye don't know what may turn up—'tis good seamanship, as I reckon, never to make an enemy of a port on a lee-shore, cook!' 'Ay, ay, old ship,' said another; 'but who looks for seaman's ways from a cook?—ye can't expect it!' 'I tar'ble 'fraid of white dibble, though, lads,' said old Dido, giving an impudent grin. 'Well, if so be,' says the old salt, 'take my word for it, ye'd better keep a look-out for him—that's all. White or black, all colours has their good words to keep, an' bad ones brings their bad luck, mate!'

"Well, sir, as for the young run-away, 'twas all of a kick-up on the quarterdeck about him; he couldn't speak a word of English, but he hung on the mate's feet like one for bare life. Just then the captain came on deck with two lady passengers, to take a look of the morning; the poor fellow was spar-naked, and the ladies made a dive below again. The captain saw the slave-brand on his shoulder, and he twigged the whole matter at once; so he told the mate to get him a pair of trousers, and a shirt, and put him to help the cook. Dido laughed louder than ever when he found out the devil wasn't so black as he was painted; and he was for indopting the youngster, by way of a sort o' jury son. However, the whole of the fok'sle took a fancy to him, considering him a kind of right to all hands. He was christened Jack, as I said before, and instead of hanging on, cook's mate, he was put up to something more seaman-like. By the time the Mary Jane got home, black Jack could set a stunsail, or furl a royal. We got Dido to give him a regular-built sartificate on his breast, of his being free to blue water, footing paid, and under the British union-jack, which 'twas the same as you saw just now, sir."

"Well," said I, "but you haven't explained why he was called by such a curious appellation as Moonlight, though?"

"Hold on a bit, sir," said the boatswain, "that's not the whole affair from end to end, yet. The next voyage I sailed again in the Mary Jane to Jamaica, for I always had a way of sticking to the same ship, when I could. I remember Dido, the cook, had a quarrel with his wife, Nancy; and one of the first nights we were at sea, he told black Jack, before all the fok'sle, how he meant to leave him all his savings, which everybody knew was no small thing, for Dido never spent any of his wages, and many a good cask of slush the old nigger had pocketed the worth of. We made a fine run of it that time down the Trades, till we got into the latitude of the Bahamas, and there the ship stuck like a log, with blue water round her, as hot as blazes, and as smooth as glass, or a bowl of oil. Once or twice we had a black squall that sent her on a bit, or another that drove her back, with a heavy swell, and now and then a light air, whichwe made the most of—setting stunsails, and hauling 'em down again in a plash of rain. But, altogether, we thought we'd never get out of them horse latitudes at all, having run over much to west'ard, till we saw the line of the Gulf Stream treading away on the sea line to nor'west, as plain as on a chart. There was a confounded devil of a shark alongside, that stuck by us all through, one of the largest I ever clapped eyes on. Every night we saw him cruising away astarn, as green as glass, down through the blue water; and in the morning, there he was under the counter, with his back fin above, and two little pilot-fish swimming off and on round about. He wouldn't take the bait either; and every man forud said there was some one to lose his mess before long; however, the cook made a dead set to hook the infernal old monster, and at last he did contrive to get him fast, with a piece of pork large enough for supper to the larboard watch. All hands tailed on to the line, and with much ado we got his snout over the taffrail, till one could look down his throat, and his tail was like to smash in the starn windows; when of a sudden, snap goes the rope where it spliced to the chain, down went the shark into the water with a tremendous splash, and got clear off, hook, chain, bait an' all. We saw no more of him, though; and by sunset we had a bit of a light breeze, that began to take us off pleasantly.

"We had had full moon nearly the night before, and this night, I remember, 'twas the very pearl of moonlight—the water all of a ripple sparkling in it, almost as blue as by day; the sky full o' white light; and the moon as large as the capstan-head, but brighter than silver. You might ha' said you saw the very rays of it come down to the bellies of the sails, and sticking on the same plank in the deck for an hour at a time, as the ship surged ahead. Old Dido, the cook, had a fashion of coming upon deck of a moonlight night, in warm latitudes, to sleep on top o' the spars; he would lie with his black face full under it, like a lizard basking in the sun. Many a time the men advised him against it, at any rate to cover his face; for, if it wouldn't spoil, they said, he might wake up blind, or with his mouth pulled down to his shoulder, and out of his mind to boot. It wasn't the first time neither, sir, I've known a fellow moonstruck in the tropics, for 'tis another guess matter altogether from your hazy bit o' white paper yonder: why, if you hang a fish in it for an hour or two, 'twill stink like a lucifer match, and be poison to eat. Well, sir, that night, sure enough, up comes Dido with a rug to lie upon, and turns in upon the spars under the bulwarks, and in five minutes he was fast asleep, snoring with his face to the moon. So the watch, being tricky inclined ways on account of the breeze, took into their heads to give him a fright. One got hold of a paint-pot out of the half-deck, and lent him a wipe of white paint with the brush all over his face; Dido only gave a grunt, and was as fast as ever. The next thing was to grease his wool, and plaster it up in shape of a couple o' horns. Then they drew a bucket of water, and set it on the deck alongside, for him to see himself. When our watch came on deck, at eight bells, the moon was as bright as ever in the west, and the cook stretched out like Happy Tom on the spars, with his face slued round to meet it. In a little the breeze began to fall, and the light canvass to flap aloft, till she was all of a shiver, and the topsails sticking in to the masts, and shaking out again, with a clap that made the boom-irons rattle. At last she wouldn't answer her wheel, and the mate had the courses hauled up in the trails; 'twas a dead calm once more, and the blue water only swelled in the moonlight, like one sheet of rear-admiral's flags a-washing in a silver steep,—that's the likest thing I can fancy. When the ship lay still, up gets the black doctor, half asleep, and I daresay he had been laying in a cargo of Jamaica rum overnight: the bucket was just under his nose as he looked down to see where he was, and the moon shining into it. I heard him roar out, 'O de dibble!' and out he sprang to larboard, over the bulwarks, into the water. 'Man overboard, ahoy!' I sang out, and the whole watch came running from aft and forud to look over. 'Oh Christ!' says oneo' the men, pointing with his finger—'Look.' Dido's head was just rising alongside; but just under the ship's counter what did we see but the black back-fin of the shark, coming slowly round, as them creatures do when they're not quite sure of anything that gives 'em the start. 'The shark! the shark!' said every one; 'he's gone, by ----' 'Down with the quarter-boat, men!' sings out the mate, and he ran to one of the falls to let it go. The young nigger, Jack, was amongst the rest of us; in a moment he off with his hat and shoes, took the cook's big carving-knife out of the galley at his back, and was overboard in a moment. He was the best swimmer I ever chanced to see, and the most fearless: the moonlight showed everything as plain as day, and he watched his time to jump right in where the shark's back-fin could be seen coming quicker along, with a wake shining down in the water at both fins and tail. Old Dido was striking out like a good un, and hailing for a rope, but he knew nothing at all of the shark. As for young Jack, he said afterwards he felt his feet come full slap on the fish's back, and then he laid out to swim under him and give him the length of his knife close by the jaw, when he'd turn up to bite—for 'twas what the youngsters along the Guinea coast were trained to do every day on the edge of the surf. However, curious enough, there wasn't another sign of this confounded old sea-tiger felt or seen again; no doubt he got a fright and went straight off under the keel; at any rate the boat was alongside of the cook and Jack next minute, and picked 'em both up safe. Jack swore he heard the chain at the shark's snout rattle, as he was slueing round his head within half a fathom of old Dido, and just as he pounced upon the bloody devil's back-bone; the next moment it was clear water below his feet, and he saw the white bells rise from a lump of green going down under the ship's bends, as large as the gig, with its belly glancing like silver. If so, I daresay the cook's legs would have stuck on his own hook before they were swallowed; but, anyhow, the old nigger was ready to believe in the devil as long as he lived. The whole matter gave poor Dido a shake he never got the better of; at the end of the voyage he vowed he'd live ashore the rest of his days, to be clear of all sorts o' devilry. Whether it didn't agree with him or not, I can't say, but he knocked off the hooks in a short time altogether, and left young Jack the most of his arnings, on the bargain of hailing by his name ever after. 'Twas a joke the men both in the Mary Jane and the old Rajah got up, when the story was told, to call the cook Dido Moonlight, because, after all, 'twas the death of him: and when Jack shipped with the rest of us here aboard of the Rajah, having seen Dido to the ground, why, all hands christened him over again Jack Moonlight; though to look at him now, I daresay, sir, you wouldn't well fancy how such things as black Jack's face and moonlight was logged together, unless the world went by contrairies!"

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