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of students ; yet many of those stu- Lord Rectorship has done honour to dents, equally from knowledge and the College. Scotland has among her years, are to be regarded as men, and sons many a gallant, many a learned, all capable of forming a much clearer and many a noble name, worthy of judgment of public men and things that honour or any other. But the than nine out of ten of the general choice of the Ex-Minister on this occonstituency. The especial point of casion must show in its strongest light view in which we quote the transac- the sincerity of the rising youth of the tion, is for its evidence, and most sa- country in the cause for which Scottisfactory evidence, of the recovered land struggled so long, so bravely, and state of national feeling. The Radi- so triumphantly. She will not be a cal journals will talk, of course, of the slave, whatever hand may attempt to results as a matter among boys. If fix the manacle ; she will not be a it had turned out otherwise, we should hireling, though the bribe should come have heard nothing but panegyrics on from a son of her own; nor will she the public spirit of the Glasgow Col- stoop to degrade the purity of her relege, and triumphs in the Radicalism ligious faith, by suffering it to follow, of the rising and educated generation. even in gilded chains, the car where But the students have shown that their Popery and Superstition move in tristudies have been wisely directed, that umph over the civil and religious litheir principles are those of honest berties of mankind. We regard the men, and that they will not sacrifice whole transaction as not merely, in the truth to nationality, honour to pa- words of the “ Conservative," “ givtronage, nor religion to faction. The ing evidence of the renovated state of mere election may be a thing of the national feeling," but, as what we next liour ; but the mind which it has ex- value, doing honour to Scotland. We hibited deserves to be a solid source of shall soon have Sir Robert Peel among congratulation to every well-wisher of us, and then we shall see how the the Empire.”

genuine spirit of our country can In all this we fully agree. The sympathize with his eloquent chamelection of Sir Robert Peel for the pionship of the Constitution.

SKETCHES AMONG THE POOR.

No. I.

In childhood's days, I do remember me
Of one dark house behind an old elm-tree,
By gloomy streets surrounded, where the flower
Brought from the fresher air, scarce for an hour
Retained its fragrant scent, yet men lived there,
Yea, and in happiness; the mind doth clear
In most dense airs its own bright atmosphere.
But in the house of which I spake there dwelt
One by whom all the weight of smoke was felt.
She had o'erstepped the bound 'twixt youth and age,
A single, not a lonely woman, sage
And thoughtful ever, yet most truly kind :
Without the natural ties, she sought to bind
Hearts unto hers, with gentle, useful love,
Prompt at each change in sympathy to move.
And so she gained the affection, which she prized
From every living thing, howe'er despised -
A call upon her tenderness whene'er
The friends around her had a grief to share ;
And if in joy the kind one they forgot,
She still rejoiced, and more was wanted not.

Said I not truly, she was not alone,
Though none at evening shared her clean hearth-stone ?

To some she might prosaic seem, but me
She always charmed with daily poesy,
Felt in her every action, never heard,
E'en as the mate of some sweet singing-bird,
That mute and still broods on her treasure-nest,
Her heart's fond hope hid deep within her breast.

In all her quiet duties, one dear thought
Kept ever true and constant sway, not brought
Before the world, but garnered all the more
For being to herself a secret store.
Whene'er she heard of country homes, a smile
Came brightening o'er her serious face the while ;
She knew not that it came, yet in her heart
A hope leaped up, of which that smile was part.
She thought the time might come, ere yet the bowl
Were broken at the fountain, when her soul
Might listen to its yearnings, unreproved
By thought of failure to the cause she loved ;
When she might leave the close and noisy street,
And once again her childhood's home might greet.

It was a pleasant place that early home!
The brook went singing by, leaving its foam
Among the flags and blue forget-me-not ;
And in a nook, above that shelter'd spot,
For ages stood a gnarled hawthorn-tree,
And if you pass'd in spring-time, you might see
The knotted trunk all coronald with flowers,
That every breeze shook down in fragrant showers ;
The earnest bees in odorous cells did lie,
Hymning their thanks with murmuring melody ;
The evening sun shone brightly on the green,
And seem'd to linger on the lonely scene ;
And if to others Mary's early nest
Show'd poor and homely, to her loving breast
A charm lay hidden in the very stains
Which time and weather left ; the old dim panes,
The grey rough moss, the house-leek, you might see
Were chronicled in childhood's memory;
And in her dreams she wander'd far and wide
Among the hills, her sister at her side-
That sister slept beneath a grassy tomb
Ere time had robb’d her of her first sweet bloom.
O Sleep! thou bringest back our childhood's heart,
Ere yet the dew exhale, the hope depart;
Thou callest up the lost ones, sorrow'd o'er
Till sorrow's self hath lost her tearful power ;
Thine is the fairy-land, where shadows dwell,
Evoked in dreams by some strange hidden spell.
But Day and Waking have their dreams, 0 Sleep,
When Hope and Memory their fond watches keep ;
And such o'er Mary held supremest sway,
When kindly labours task'd her hands all day,
Employ'd her hands, her thoughts roam'd far and free,
Till sense callid down to calm reality,
A few short weeks, and then, unbound the chains
Which held her to another's woes or pains,
Farewell to dusky streets and shrouded skies,
Her treasur’d home should bless her yearning eyes,
And fair as in the days of childish glee
Each grassy nook and wooded haunt should be.

Yet ever as one sorrow pass'd away,

Another call'd the tender one to stay, YOL. XLI. NO, CCLV.

D

And where so late she shared the bright glad mirth,
The phantom Grief sat cowering at the hearth.
So days and weeks pass'd on, and grew to years,
Unwept by Mary, save for others' tears.
As a fond nurse, that from the mother's breast
Lulls the tired infant to its quiet rest,
First stills each sound, then lets the curtain fall
To cast a dim and sleepy light o'er all,
So age drew gently o'er each wearied sense
A deepening shade to smooth the parting hence.
Each cherish'd accent, each familiar tone
Fell from her daily music, one by one ;
Still her attentive looks could rightly guess
What moving lips by sound could not express.
O’er each loved face next came a filmy veil,
And shine and shadow from her sight did fail.
And, last of all, the solemn change they saw
Depriving Death of half his regal awe;
The mind sank down to childishness, and they,
Relying on her counsel day by day
(As some lone wanderer, from his home afar,
Takes for his guide some fix'd and well-known star,
Till clouds come wafting o'er its trembling light,
And leave him wilder'd in the pathless night),
Sought her changed face with strange uncertain gaze,
Still praying her to lead them through the maze.
They pitied her lone fate, and deemed it sad,
Yet as in early childhood was she glad ;
No sense had she of change, or loss of thought,
With those around her no communion sought ;
Scarce knew she of their being. Fancy wild
Had placed her in her father's house a child ;
It was her mother sang her to her rest;
The lark awoke her springing from his nest ;
The bees sang cheerily the livelong day,
Lurking 'mid flowers wherever she did play ;
The Sabbath bells rang as in years gone by,
Swelling and falling on the soft wind's sigh ;
Her little sisters knelt with her in prayer,
And nightly did her father's blessing share ;
So, wrapt in glad imaginings, her life
Stole on with all her sweet young memories rife.

I often think (if by this mortal light
We e'er can read another's lot aright),
That for her loving heart a blessing came,
Unseen by many, clouded by a name ;
And all the outward fading from the world
WaNike the flower at night, when it has furled
Its golyen leaves, and lapped them round its heart,
To nestle closer in its sweetest part.
Yes! angel voices called her childhood back,
Blotting out life with its dim sorrowy track ;
Her secret wish was ever known in heaven,
And so in mystery was the answer given.
In sadness many mourned her latter years,
But blessing shone behind that mist of tears,
And as the child she deemed herself, she lies
In gentle slumber, till the dead shall rise.

ALCIBIADES THE MAN.

SCENES XIX-XXIII.

CONCLUSION.

Φοβηθέντες γαρ αυτού οι πολλοί το μέγεθος της το κατά το εαυτού σώμα παρανομίας ες την δίαιταν, και της διανοίας ών καθ' έν έκαστον, εν ότω γίγνοιτο, έπρασσιν, ως τυραννίδος επιθυμούντι πολέμιοι καθίστασαν, και δημοσία κράτιστα διαθέντα τα του πολέμου, ιδία έκαστοι τους επιτηδεύμασιν αυτού αχθεσθέντες, και άλλους επιτρέψαντες, ου δια μακρού έσφιλαν την πόλιν.

THUCYD. VI. 15.

"For most men, alarmed by the extravagance of his personal expenditure, and by the greatness of spirit he displayed in every thing in which he bore a part, became hostile to him, as one that aimed at tyranny. And though, in his public capacity, he managed the war excellently, yet being individually disgusted with his pursuits in private, and so committing the conduct of affairs to others, in NO LONG TIME THEY OVERTURNED THE STATE."

Not HOBBES.

Pardon, for once, an Attic quotation-duly rendered for the sake of rural gentlemen-at the head of our last Alcibiades!

Our last :-melancholy category! Except it be shaving, tooth-drawing, speaking at public dinners, being roasted by Lynch Law, and a very few et ceteras, there is nothing we should much like to do, to be, or to suffer, for the last time. But the last of any thing superlatively good—the last pirouette of Taglioni—the last morsel of green fat in our second plate of turtle—the last page of Captain Marryatt's last sea-novel—the last sentence in a Nox Ambrosiana (O noctes cænæque Deúm !)—the last drop of that imperial Tokay, which cost us just a guinea per glass at the sale of old Q's. drinkables—such last things as these are nothing else than so much purgatorial agony. Imagine, then, our predicament as, with pensive grace—a drooping head-a twinkling tear-an unsteady hand—and a pre-eminently bad pen-we sit down to copy the finishing strokes of a picture that has gained, and merited, universal admiration.

Farewell, Son of Clinias!—foremost of Athenian names_essence, thricedistilled, of the Grecian idiosyncrasy—magnanimous voluptuary-loveable hero! Freshly hast thou lived and moved upon these speaking pages. In the multitude of thy thoughts--as thou flittest from shore to shore of the boundless Invisible_has a pleasing consciousness of renovated fame warmed thee once again with something like a human sensation ?

Farewell, Timandra—" tender and true !" Faith unchangeable was thine ! Love strong as death” sustained thee. The instinct of a self-devoting heart was thy guide. Beautiful Pagan!We know nothing of thy errors—but here is a garland for thine urn !

Farewell, image of Meissner_"shape or shade! whate'er thou art,"'-evoked by us from the dark gulf of oblivion ! Strong has been the breath of thy inspiration : mighty the effect of that mysterious afflatus. Like the Pythoness when her hour was come, we have reeled beneath it-powerless, at some moments, to distinguish between our own effusion and the dictates of the god. But no farewell to thee, Christopher, Cock of the North !

“ Fortunate senex, ergo tua rura manebunt !” i. e. “ Lucky old Boy, thou shalt still retain thy country contributor !” Ever since anno Ďomini 1818, when our first anonymous offering, a Night in the Catacombs, graced thy columns, we have had the highest opinion of thy taste. Various, throughout the intervening years, have been thy moods towards us. Sometimes that benevolent smile, which melts the souls of prudes sometimes that lion-like knitting of the brows, whereat bull-dogs go into hysterics—once the awful crutch was half-uplifted

but lo! when the shuddering public thought to see us crumble into dust-a victim-we started up, brisker than ever, a confederate !

Without farther preface, we will rush into the bowels of our plot.

Ninety-six moons had waxed and waned since Alcibiades sailed from the Peiræus. Often had his inmost soul sickened with the longing to revisit the land of his fathers. Often had his friends implored him to return—were it only for a day. And yet he had not returned. Partly he trusted not yet his loving countrymen. The general, with an army to back him, they might laud at a distance : the citizen, once more within their grasp, they might bring to a reckoning at home. Partly too, to his mounting spirit, a restoration without noise and splendour seemed out of proportion to his long banishment, and the manifest injustice he had suffered. But now-at last-there was such a clustering of bright stars in his horoscope, such a combination of favourable circumstances, that his doubts disappeared, and even his vanity felt satisfied.

The reduction of Byzantium—we might have touched up some grand scenes out of that business, had it so pleased us-had crowned a series of brilliant exploits, thronging on each other's heels, since he relieved Tissaphernes from the anxiety of looking after his safe custody. Even the frigid Mr Mitford warms in summing up the proud catalogue of his services. “ When the forces first placed him at their head, Athens scarcely commanded more territory than its walls enclosed; revenue was gone, and the commonwealth depended for existence upon its fleet, which was at the same time dispirited and mutinous. He had restored loyalty to the fleet; he had restored dominion to the commonwealth ; he had destroyed the enemy's fleet; and, under his conduct, the navy of Athens again commanded the seas : and, what was not least among the services, his successes and his reputation, without solicitation or intrigue, had conciliated the adverse satrap Pharnabazus, and opened probable means for checking those sources of supply to the enemy, the failure of which would restore to Athens certain superiority in the war.

Moreover, the sovereign People had now confirmed him, with Conon and Thrasybulus as his colleagues, in his post of general. “ Enough!” cried Alcibiades, “ for Athens, ho!” There was a trifle of some 24,000 pounds, or thereabouts, collected by him in Caria, after quitting Byzantium, which would not, he thought, make him the less welcome.

Thucydides, son of Olorus, again we devote thee to the infernal gods for leaving an unfinished history! What cramp of hand, what costiveness of soul, forced thee to stick fast in the twenty-first year of the Great War? You, who have dashed off, in four breathing and burning sentences, the SAILING FOR Sicily-you, in whose living words we yet hear the “ warning trumpet blown" -the herald's leading voice—the universal prayer—the vows on shore—the pæan on the waves-you, in whose vivid tints we yet behold the teeming goblets—the_golden and the silver cups — the poured libation—the galleys “ racing to Ægina”—why, in the name of Pluto and of Proserpine, did you not paint, on another canvass, the LANDING OF ALCIBIADES AT ATHENS ? To be sure we have Xenophon—the Attic bee—as a substitute ; but 'tis too true that neither “ as a political reasoner"-according to the judgment passed by a very lenient Rhadamanthus—nor as any thing else, we will take the liberty of adding—" do the masculine energy and weight of Thucydides revive in the parallel passages of Xenophon.” He has made marvellously little of the landing. He tells us more of what was said than of what was done. There is a certain Duris of Samos—with the blood of Clinias in his veins--who gets up a better show for the occasion ; but he is generally supposed to lie like a Yankee skipper. So we must give up “the oars keeping time to the flute of Chrysogonus, who had been victorious in the Pythian games "-" Callipides, the tragedian, attired in his buskins, magnificent robes, and other theatrical ornaments,” and “ the admiral-galley entering the harbour with a purple sail"-we must dispense with all this tissue of glittering embroidery, and be content with what we can spin for ourselves out of the raw material-duty paid-in Plus tarch.

With captured shields, with trophies of Persian armour, with the spoils of

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