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T'other night, as Apollo was quaffing a gillWith his pupils, the Muses, from Helicon's rill,(For all circles of rank in Parnassus agreeIn preferring cold water to coffee or tea)The discourse turned as usual on critical matters,And the last stirring news from the kingdom of letters.But when poets, and critics, and wits, and what not,From Jeffery and Byron, to Stoddart and Stott,{2}Had received their due portion of consideration,Cried Apollo, "Pray, ladies, how goes education?For I own my poor brain's been so muddled of late,In transacting the greater affairs of the state;And so long every day in the courts I've been stewing,I've had no time to think what the children were doing.There's my favorite Byron my presence inviting,And Milman, and Coleridge, and Moore, have been writing;And my ears at this moment confoundedly tingle,From the squabbling of Blackwood with Cleghorn and Pringle:But as all their disputes seem at length at an end,And the poets my levee have ceased to attend;Since the weather's improving, and lengthen'd the days,For a visit to Eton I'll order my chaise:1 This poem, the reader will perceive, is an humbleimitation of Leigh Hunt's "Feast of the Poets;" and thelines distinguished by asterisks are borrowed or alteredfrom the original.2 A writer in "The Morning Post," mentioned by Lord Byron,in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers."
There's my sister Diana my day coach to drive,And I'll send the new Canto to keep you alive.So my business all settled, and absence supply'd,For an earthly excursion to-morrow I'll ride."Thus spoke king Apollo; the Muses assented;And the god went to bed most bepraised and contented.'Twas on Saturday morning, near half past eleven,When a god, like a devil,4 came driving from heaven,And with postboys, and footmen, and liveries blazing,Soon set half the country a gaping and gazing.When the carriage drove into the Christopher yard,How the waiters all bustled, and Garraway stared;And the hostlers and boot-catchers wonder'd, and swore"They'd ne'er seen such a start in their lifetime before!"I could tell how, as soon as his chariot drew nigh,Every cloud disappear'd from the face of the sky;And the birds in the hedges more tunefully sung,And the bells in St. George's spontaneously rung;And the people, all seized with divine inspiration,Couldn't talk without rhyming and versification.But such matters, though vastly important, I ween,Are too long for the limits of your magazine.Now it soon got abroad that Apollo was come,And intended to be, for that evening, "at home;"And that cards would be issued, and tickets be given,To all scholars and wits, for a dinner at seven.So he'd scarcely sat clown, when a legion came pouringOf would-be-thought scholars, his favor imploring.First, Buller stept in, with a lengthy orationAbout "scandalous usage," and "hard situation:"And such treatment as never, since Eton was started,
Had been shown to a genius, like him, "broken-hearted."He'd " no doubt but his friends in Parnassus must knowHow his fine declamation was laugh'd at below;And how Keate, like a blockhead ungifted with brains,Had neglected to grant him a prize for his pains.He was sure, if such conduct continued much longer,The school must grow weaker, and indolence stronger;That the rights of sixth form would be laid in the dust,And the school after that, he thought, tumble it must.But he knew that Apollo was learned and wise,And he hoped that his godship would give him a prize;Or, at least, to make up for his mortification,Would invite him to dinner without hesitation."Now Apollo, it seems, had some little pretenceTo a trifling proportion of wisdom and sense:So without ever asking the spark to be seated,He thus cut short his hopes, and his projects defeated."After all, Mr. Buller, you've deign'd to repeat,I'm afraid that you'll think me as stupid as Keate:But to wave all disputes on your talents and knowledge,Pray what have you done as the captain of college?Have you patronized learning, or sapping commended?Have you e'er to your fags, or their studies, attended?To the school have you given of merit a sample,And directed by precept, or led by example?"
What Apollo said more I'm forbidden to say,But Buller dined not at his table that day.Next, a smart little gentleman march'd with a stare up,A smoothing his neckcloth, and patting his hair up;And with bows and grimaces quadrillers might follow,Said, " he own'd that his face was unknown to Apollo;
But he held in hand what must be his apology,A short treatise he'd written onBritish Geology;And this journal, he hoped, of his studies last week,In philosophy, chemistry, logic, and Greek,Might appear on perusal: but not to go farIn proclaiming his merits—his name was Tom Carr:And for proofs of his talents, deserts, and what not,He appeal'd to Miss Baillie, Lord Byron, and Scott."Here his speech was cut short by a hubbub below,And in walk'd Messrs. Maturin, Cookesly, and Co.,And begg'd leave to present to his majesty's finger—If he'd please to accept—No. 5 of the Linger.{5}Mr. Maturin "hoped he the columns would viewWith unprejudiced judgment, and give them their due,Nor believe all the lies, which perhaps he had seen,In that vile publication, that base magazine,{6}Which had dared to impeach his most chaste lucubrations,Of obscenity, nonsense, and such accusations.Nay, that impudent work had asserted downright,That chalk differ'd from cheese, and that black wasn't white;But he hoped he might meet with his majesty's favor;"And thus, hemming and hawing, he closed his palaver.Now the god condescended to look at the papers,But the first word he found in them gave him the vapours:For the eyes of Apollo, ye gods! 'twas a wordQuite unfit to be written, and more to be heard;'Twas a word which a bargeman would tremble to utter,And it put his poor majesty all in a flutter;But collecting his courage, his laurels he shook,And around on the company cast such a look,That e'en Turin and Dumpling slank off to the door,And the Lion was far too much frighten'd to roar;5 An Eton periodical of the time.6 The College Magazine.
While poor Carr was attack'd with such qualms at the breast,That he took up his journal, and fled with the rest.When the tumult subsided, and peace 'gan to follow,Goddard enter'd the room, with three cards for Apollo,And some papers which, hardly five minutes before,Three respectable gownsmen had left at the door.With a smile of good humour the god look'd at each,For he found that they came from Blunt, Chapman, and Neech.{7}Blunt sent him a treatise of science profound,Showing how rotten eggs were distinguish'd from sound;Some "Remarks on Debates," and some long-winded stories,Of society Whigs, and society Tories;And six sheets and a half of a sage dissertation,On the present most wicked and dull generation.From Chapman came lectures on Monk, and on piety;On Simeon, and learning, and plays, and sobriety;With most clear illustrations, and critical notes,On his own right exclusive of canvassing votes.From Neech came a medley of prose and of rhyme,Satires, epigrams, sonnets, and sermons sublime;But he'd chosen all customs and rules to reverse,For his satires were prose, and las sermons were verse.Phoebus look'd at the papers, commended all three,And sent word he'd be happy to see them to tea.The affairs of the morning thus happily o'er,Phoebus pull'd from his pocket twelve tickets or more,Which the waiters were ordered forthwith to disperse'Mongst the most approved scribblers in prose and in verse:'Mongst the gentlemen honor'd with cards, let me see,There was Howard, and Coleridge, and Wood, and Lavie,The society's props; Curzon, major and minor,7 Principal contributors to the Etonian.
Bowen, Hennicker, Webbe, were invited to dinner:The theologist Buxton, and Petit, were seen,And philosopher Jenyns, and Donald Maclean;Bulteel too, and Dykes; but it happen'd (oh shame!)That, though many were ask'd, very few of them came.As for Coleridge, he "knew not what right Phobus had,d—n me, To set up for a judge in a christian academy;And he'd not condescend to submit his Latinity,Nor his verses, nor Greek, to a heathen divinity.For his part, he should think his advice an affront,Full as bad as the libels of Chapman and Blunt.He'd no doubt but his dinner might be very good,But he'd not go and taste it—be d—d if he would."Dean fear'd that his pupils their minds should defile,And Maclean was engaged to the duke of Argyll;In a deep fit of lethargy Petit had sunk,And theologist Buxton withBishopwas drunk;Bulteel too, and Dykes, much against their own will,Had been both pre-engaged to a party to mill;And philosopher Jenyns was bent on his knees,To electrify spiders, and galvanize fleas.But the rest all accepted the god's invitation,And made haste to prepare for this jollification.Now the dinner was handsome as dinner could be,But to tell every dish is too tedious for me;Such a task, at the best, would be irksome and long,And, besides, I must haste to the end of my song.'Tis enough to relate that, the better to dine,Jove sent them some nectar, and Bacchus some wine.From Minerva came olives to crown the dessert,And from Helicon water was sent most alert,Of which Howard, 'tis said, drank so long and so deep,That he almost fell into poetical sleep.{8}When the cloth was removed, and the bottle went round,"Nec fonte labra prolui C'aballino,Nec in bicipiti sommasse Parnasso."Persius.
Wit, glee, and good humour, began to abound,Though Lord Chesterfield would not have call'd them polite,For they all often burst into laughter outright.
But swift flew the moments of rapture and glee,And too early, alas! they were summon'd to tea.With looks most demure, each prepared with a speech,At the table were seated Blunt, Chapman, and Neech.Phobus stopt their orations, with dignity free,And with easy politeness shook hands with all three;And the party proceeded, increased to a host,To discuss bread and butter, tea, coffee, and toast.As their numbers grew larger, more loud grew their mirth,And Apollo from heav'n drew its raptures to earth:With divine inspiration he kindled each mind,Till their wit, like their sugar, grew double refined;And an evening, enliven'd by conviviality,Proved how much they were pleased by the god's hospitality.Thalia.{9}9 This poem is attributed to J. Moultrie, Esq. of Trinitycollege, Cambridge.
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Stand by, old Cant, while I admireThe young and gay, with souls of fire,Unloose the cheerful heart.Hence with thy puritanic zeal;True virtue is to grant and feel—A bliss thou'lt ne'er impart.
I love thee, Montem,—love thee, by all the brightest recollections of my youth, for the inspiring pleasures which thy triennial pageant revives in my heart: joined with thy merry throng, I can forget the cares and disappointments of the world; and, tripping gaily with the light-hearted, youthful band, cast off the gloom of envy and of worldly pursuit, reassociating myself with the joyous scenes of my boyhood. Nay, more, I hold thee in higher veneration than ever did antiquarian worship the relics ofvirtu.
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Destruction light upon the impious hand that would abridge thy ancient charter;—be all thy children, father Etona, doubly-armed to defend thy ancient honors;—let no modern Goth presume to violate thy sacred rights; but to the end of time may future generations retain the spirit of thy present race; and often as the happy period comes, new pleasures wait upon the Eton Montem.{1}
1 The ancient custom, celebrated at Eton every third year,on Whit-Tuesday, and which bears the title of The Montem,appears to have defied antiquarian research, as far asrelates to its original institution. It consiste of aprocession to a small tumulus on the southern side of theBath road, which has given the name of Salt-Hill to thespot, now better known by the splendid inns that areestablished there. The chief object of this celebration,however, is to collect money for salt, according to thelanguage of the day, from all persons who assemble to seethe show, nor does it fail to be exacted from travellers onthe road, and even at the private residences within acertain, but no inconsiderable, range of the spot. Thescholars appointed to collect the money are calledsalt-bearers; they are arrayed in fancy dresses, and areattended by others called scouts, of a similar, but lessshowy appearance. Tickets are given to such persons as havepaid their contributions, to secure them from any furtherdemand. This ceremony is always very numerously attended byEtonians, and has frequently been honored with the presenceof his late Majesty, and the different branches of the RoyalFamily. The sum collected on the occasion has sometimesexceeded 800L., and is given to the senior scholar, who iscalled Captain of the School. This procession appears to becoeval with the foundation; and it is the opinion of Mr.Lysons, that it was a ceremonial of the Bairn, or Boy-Bishop. He states, that it originally took place on the 6thof December, the festival of St. Nicholas, the patron ofchildren; being the day on which it was customary atSalisbury, and in other places where the ceremony wasobserved, to elect the Boy-Bishop from among the childrenbelonging to the cathedral. This mock dignity lasted tillInnocents' day; and, during the intermediate time, the boyperformed various episcopal functions. If it happened thathe died before the allotted period of this extraordinarymummery had expired, he was buried with all the ceremonialswhich were used at the funerals of prelates. In thevoluminous collections relating to antiquities, bequeathedby Mr. Cole, who was himself of Eton and King's colleges, tothe British Museum, is a note which
mentions that the ceremony of the Bairn or Boy-Bishop was tobe observed by charter, and that Geoffry Blythe, Bishop ofLichfield, who died in 1530, bequeathed several ornamentsto those colleges, for the dress of the bairn-bishop. But onwhat authority this industrious antiquary gives theinformation, which, if correct, would put an end to alldoubt on the subject, does not appear. But, after all, whymay not this custom be supposed to have originated in aprocession to perform an annual mass at the altar of somesaint, to whom a small chapel might have been dedicated onthe mount called Salt-Hill; a ceremony very common inCatholic countries, as such an altar is a frequent appendageto their towns and populous villages? As for the selling ofsalt, it may be considered as a natural accompaniment, whenits emblematical character, as to its use in the ceremoniesof the Roman Church, is contemplated. Till the time ofDoctor Barnard, the procession of the Montem was every twoyears, and on the first or second Tuesday in February. Itconsisted of something of a military array. The boys in theremove, fourth, and inferior forms, marched in a long fileof two and two, with white poles in their hands, while thesixth and fifth form boys walked on their flanks asofficers, and habited in all the variety of dress, each ofthem having a boy of the inferior forms, smartly equipped,attending on him as a footman. The second boy in the schoolled the procession in a military dress, with a truncheon inhis hand, and bore for the day the title of Marshal: thenfollowed the Captain, supported by his Chaplain, the headscholar of the fifth form, dressed in a suit of black, witha large bushy wig, and a broad beaver decorated with atwisted silk hatband and rose, the fashionable distinctionof the dignified clergy of that day. It was his office toread certain Latin prayers on the mount at Salt-Hill Thethird boy of the school brought up the rear as Lieutenant.One of the higher classes, whose qualification was hisactivity, was chosen Ensign, and carried the colours, whichwere emblazoned with the college arms, and the motto,Promort el monte. This flag, before the procession left thecollege, he flourished in the school-yard with all thedexterity displayed at Astley's and places of similarexhibition. The same ceremony was repeated after prayers, onthe mount. The regiment dined in the inns at Salt-Hill, andthen returned to the college; and its dismission in theschool-yard was announced by the universal drawing of allthe swords. Those who bore the title of commissionedofficers were exclusively on the foundation, and carriedspontoons; the rest were considered as Serjeants andcorporals, and a most curious assemblage of figures theyexhibited. The two principal salt-bearers consisted of anoppidan and a colleger: the former was generally somenobleman, whose figure and personal connexions might advancethe interests of the collections. They were dressed likerunning footmen, and carried, each of them, a silk bag toreceive the contributions, in which was a small quantity ofsalt. During Doctor Barnard's mastership, the ceremony wasmade triennial, the time changed from February to Whit-Tuesday, and several of its absurdities retrenched. Anancient and savage custom of hunting a ram by the foundationscholars, on Saturday in the election week, was abolished inthe earlier part of the last century. The curious twistedclubs with which these collegiate hunters were armed on theoccasion are still to be seen in antiquarian collections.
What coronation, tournament, or courtly pageant, can outshine thy splendid innocence and delightful gaiety? what regal banquet yields half the pure enjoyment the sons of old Etona experience, when, after months of busy preparation, the happy morn arrives ushered in with the inspiring notes of "Auld lang syne" from the well-chosen band in the college breakfast-room? Then, too, the crowds of admiring spectators, the angel host of captivating beauties with their starry orbs of light, and luxuriant tresses, curling in playful elegance around a face beaming with divinity, or falling in admired negligence over bosoms of alabastrine whiteness and unspotted purity within! Grey-bearded wisdom and the peerless great, the stars of honor in the field and state, the pulpit and the bar, send forth their brightest ornaments to grace Etona's holiday. Oxford and Cambridge, too, lend their classic aid, and many a grateful son ofAlma Materreturns to acknowledge his obligations to his early tutors and swell the number of the mirthful host. Here may be seen, concentrated in the quadrangle, the costume of every nation, in all the gay variety that fancy can devise: the Persian spangled robe, and the embroidered Greek vest; the graceful Spanish, and the picturesque Italian, the Roman toga and the tunic, and the rich old English suit. Pages in red frocks, and marshals in their satindoublets; white wands and splendid turbans, plumes, and velvet hats, all hastening with a ready zeal to obey the call of the muster-roll. The captain with his retinue retires to pay his court to the provost; while, in the doctor's study, may be seen, gathered around the dignitary, a few of those great names who honor Eton and owe their honor to her classic tutors. Twelve o'clock strikes, and the procession is now marshalled in the quadrangle in sight of the privileged circle, princes, dukes, peers, and doctors with their ladies. Here does the ensign first display his skill in public, and the Montem banner is flourished in horizontal revolutions about the head and waist with every grace of elegance and ease which the result of three months' practice and no little strength can accomplish.
Twelve o'clock strikes, and the procession moves forward to the playing fields on its route to Salt-Hill. Now look the venerable spires and antique towers of Eton like to some chieftain's baronial castle in the feudal times, and the proud captain represents the hero marching forth at the head of his parti-coloured vassals!
The gallant display of rank and fashion and beauty follow in their splendid equipages by slow progressive movement, like the delightful lingering, inch by inch approach to St. James's palace on a full court-day. The place itself is calculated to impress the mind with sentiments of veneration and of heart-moving reminiscences; seated in the bosom of one of the richest landscapes in the kingdom, where on the height majestic Windsor lifts its royal brow; calmly magnificent, over-looking, from his round tower, the surrounding country, and waving his kingly banner in the air: 'tis the high court of English chivalry, the birth-place, the residence, and the mausoleum of her kings, and "i' the olden time," the prison of her captured monarchs. "At once, the sovereign's andthe muses' seat," rich beyond almost any other district in palaces, and fanes, and villas, in all the "pomp of patriarchal forests," and gently-swelling hills, and noble streams, and waving harvests; there Denham wrote, and Pope breathed the soft note of pastoral inspiration; and there too the immortal bard of Avon chose the scene in which to wind the snares of love around his fat-encumbered knight. Who can visit the spot without thinking of Datchet mead and the buck-basket of sweet Anne Page and Master Slender, and mine host of the Garter, and all the rest of that merry, intriguing crew? And now having reached the foot of the mount and old druidical barrow, the flag is again waved amid the cheers of the surrounding thousands who line its sides, and in their carriages environ its ancient base.{2} Now the salt-bearers and the pages bank their collections in one common stock, and the juvenile band partake of the captain's banquet, and drink success to his future prospects in Botham's port. Then, too, old Herbertus Stockhore—he must not be forgotten; I have already introduced him to your notice in p. 59, and my friend Bob Transit has illustrated the sketch with his portrait; yet here he demands notice in his official character, and perhaps I cannot do better than quote the humorous account given of him by the elegant pen of an old Etonian {3}
"Who is that buffoon that travesties the travesty? Who is that old cripple alighted from his donkey-cart, who dispenses doggrel and grimaces in all the glory of plush and printed calico?"
"That, my most noble cynic, is a prodigious personage. Shall birth-days and coronations be recorded in immortal odes, and Montem not have its minstrel 1 He, sir, is Herbertus Stockhore; who first called upon his muse in the good old days of Paul Whitehead,—
2 See plate of the Montem, sketched on the spot.3 See Knight's Quarterly Magazine, No. II.
run a race with Pye through all the sublimities of lyres and fires,—and is now hobbling to his grave, after having sung fourteen Montems, the only existing example of a legitimate laureate.
"He ascended his heaven of invention, before the vulgar arts of reading and writing, which are banishing all poetry from the world, could clip his wings. He was an adventurous soldier in his boyhood; but, having addicted himself to matrimony and the muses, settled as a bricklayer's labourer at Windsor. His meditations on the house-tops soon grew into form and substance; and, about the year 1780, he aspired, with all the impudence of Shad well, and a little of the pride of Petrarch, to the laurel-crown of Eton. From that day he has worn his honors on his 'Cibberian forehead' without a rival."
"And what is his style of composition?"
"Vastly naïve and original;—though the character of the age is sometimes impressed upon his productions. For the first three odes, ere the school of Pope was extinct, he was a compiler of regular couplets such as—
'Ye dames of honor and lords of high renown,Who come to visit us at Eton town.'"
During the next nine years, when the remembrance of Collins and Gray was working a glorious change in the popular mind, he ascended to Pindarics, and closed his lyrics with some such pious invocation as this:—
'And now we'll singGod save the king,And send him long to reign,That he may comeTo have some funAt Montem once again. '
During the first twelve years of the present century, the influence of the Lake school was visible in hisproductions. In my great work I shall give an elaborate dissertation on his imitations of the high-priests of that worship; but I must now content myself with a single illustration:—
'There's ensign Ronnell, tall and proud,Doth stand upon the hill,And waves the flag to all the crowd,Who much admire his skill.And here I sit upon my ass,Who lops his shaggy ears;Mild thing! he lets the gentry pass,Nor heeds the carriages and peel's.'
He was once infected (but it was a venial sin) by the heresies of the cockney school; and was betrayed, by the contagion of evil example, into the following conceits:
'Behold admiral Keato of the terrestrial crew, Who teaches Greek, Latin, and likewise Hebrew; He has taught Captain Dampier, the first in the race, Swirling his hat with a feathery grace, Cookson the marshal, and Willoughby, of size, Making minor serjeant-majors in looking-glass eyes.'
But he at length returned to his own pure and original style; and, like the dying swan, he sings the sweeter as he is approaching the land where the voice of his minstrelsy shall no more be heard. There is a calm melancholy in the close of his present ode which is very pathetic, and almost Shakspearian:—
'Farewell you gay and happy throng!Farewell my muse! farewell my song!Farewell Salt-hill! farewell brave captain.'
Yet, may it be long before he goes hence and is no more seen! May he limp, like his rhymes, for at least a dozen years; for National schools have utterly annihilated our hopes of a successor!"
"I will not attempt to reason with you," said the inquirer, "about the pleasures of Montem;—but to anEtonian it is enough that it brings pure and ennobling recollections—calls up associations of hope and happiness—and makes even the wise feel that there is something better than wisdom, and the great that there is something nobler than greatness. And then the faces that come about us at such a time, with their tales of old friendships or generous rivalries. I have seen to-day fifty fellows of whom I remember only the nick-names;—they are now degenerated into scheming M.P.'s, or clever lawyers, or portly doctors; -but at Montera they leave the plodding world of reality for one day, and regain the dignities of sixth-form Etonians." {4}
4 To enumerate all the distinguished persons educated atEton would be no easy task; many of the greatest ornamentsof our country have laid the foundation of all theirliterary and scientific wealth within the towers of thisvenerable edifice. Bishops Fleetwood and Pearson, thelearned John Hales, Dr. Stanhope, Sir Robert Walpole, thegreat Earl Camden, Outred the mathematician, Boyle thephilosopher, Waller the poet, the illustrious Earl ofChatham, Lord Lyttelton, Gray the poet, and an endless listof shining characters have owned Eton for their scholasticnursery: not to mention the various existing literati whohave received their education at this celebrated college.The local situation of Eton is romantic and pleasing; thereis a monastic gloom about the building, finely contrastingwith the beauty of the surrounding scenery, whichirresistibly enchains the eye and heart.
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Horatio had just concluded the last sentence of the description of the Eton Montem, when my aunt, who had now exceeded her usual retiring time by at least half an hour, made a sudden start, upon hearing the chimes of the old castle clock proclaim a notice of the midnight hour. "Heavens! boy," said Lady Mary Oldstyle, "what rakes we are! I believe we must abandon all intention of inviting your friend Bernard here; for should his conversation prove half as entertaining as these miscellaneous whims and scraps of his early years, we should, I fear, often encroach upon the midnight lamp." "You forget, aunt," replied Horatio, "that the swallow has already commenced his spring habitation beneath the housings of our bed-room window, that the long summer evenings will soon be here, and then how delightful would be the society of an intelligent friend to accompany us in our evening perambulations through the park, to chat away half an hour with in the hermitage, or to hold converse on your favourite subject botany, and run through all the varieties of thecamelia japonica, or themagnolia fuscata; then too, I will confess, my own selfishness in the proposition, the pleasure of my friend's company in my fishing excursions, would divest my favourite amusement of its solitary character."My aunt nodded assent, drew the cowl of her ancient silk cloak over the back part of her head, and, with a half-closed eye, muttered out, in tones of sympathy, her fullest accordance in the proposed arrangement. "I have only one more trifle to read," said Horatio, "before I conclude the history of our school-boy days." "We had better have the bed-candles," said my aunt. "You had better hear the conclusion, aunt," said Horatio, "and then we can commence the English Spy with the evening of to-morrow." My aunt wanted but little excitement to accede to the request, and that little was much exceeded in the promise of Horatio's reading Bernard's new work on the succeeding evening, when she had calculated on being left in solitary singleness by her nephew's visit to the county ball. "You must know, aunt," said Horatio, "that it has been a custom, from time immemorial at Eton, for every scholar to write a farewell ode on his leaving, which is presented to the head master, and is called a Vale; in addition, some of the most distinguished characters employ first-rate artists to paint their portraits, which, as a tribute of respect, they present to the principal. Dr. Barnard had nearly a hundred of these grateful faces hanging in his sanctum sanctorum, and the present master bids fair to rival his learned and respected predecessor.My friend's Vale, like every other production of his pen, is marked by the distinguishing characteristic eccentricity of his mind. The idea, I suspect, was suggested by the Earl of Carlisle's elegant verses, to which he has previously alluded; you will perceive he has again touched upon the peculiarities of his associates, thedramatis personoof 'the English Spy,' and endeavoured, in prophetic verse, to unfold the secrets of futurity, as it relates to their dispositions, prospects, and pursuits in life."
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In infancy oft' by observance we traceWhat life's future page may unfold;Who the senate, the bar, or the pulpit may grace,Who'll obtain wreathe of fame or of gold.My Vale, should my muse prove but willing and free,Parting sorrows to chase from my brain,Shall in metre prophetic, on some two or three,Indulge in her whimsical vein.First Keate let me give to thy talents and worth,A tribute that all will approve;When Atropos shall sever thy life's thread on earthThou shalt fall rich in honor and love.Revered as respected thy memory last,
Long, long, as Etona is known,Engraved on the hearts of thy scholars, the blastOf detraction ne'er sully thy stone.Others too I could name and as worthy of note,But my Vale 'twould too lengthy extend:SageDomineall,—all deserving my vote,Who the tutor combine with the friend.But a truce with these ancients, the young I must seek,The juvenile friends of my heart,Of secrets hid in futurity speak,And tell how they'll each play their part.First Heartly, the warmth of thy generous heartShall expand with maturity's years;New joys to the ag'd and the poor thou'lt impart,And dry up pale Misery's tears.Next honest Tom Echo, the giddy and gay,In sports shall all others excel;And the sound of his horn, with "Ho! boys, hark—away!"Re-echo his worth through life's dell.
Horace Eglantine deep at Pierian springInspiration poetic shall quaff,In numbers majestic with Shakespeare to sing,Or in Lyrics with Pindar to laugh.Little Gradus, sage Dick, you'll a senator see,But a lawyer in every sense,Whose personal interest must paramount be,No matter whate'er his pretence.The exquisite Lilyman Lionise mark,Of fashion the fool and the sport;With the gamesters a dupe, he shall drop like a spark,Forgot by the blaze of the court.Bob Transit,—if prudent, respected and richBy his talent shall rise into note;And in Fame's honor'd temple be sure of a niche,By each R.A.'s unanimous vote.Bernard Blackmantle's fortune alone is in doubt,For prophets ne'er tell of themselves;But one thing his heart has a long time found out,
'Tis his love for Etonian elves.For the college, and dames, and the dear playing fieldsWhere science and friendship preside,For the spot which the balm of true happiness yields,As each day by its fellow doth glide.Adieu, honor'd masters! kind dames, fare thee well!Ye light-hearted spirits adieu!How feeble my Vale—my griev'd feelings to tellAs Etona declines from my view.
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"Men are my subject, and not fictions vain;Oxford my chaunt, and satire is my strain."
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