:

quietly retire, and when the battle is over, and the decks cleared, we will have out our conversation. The great charm, no doubt, in Thackeray's novels, is the wonderful resemblance they bear to human nature; all our old friends are there, dressed up in stage costume : you and I are there: our worst and best passions are all minutely described, laughed at, or praised by this satirist. Perhaps, sometimes, he is too bitter, and describes our nature too truly indeed he could not describe it too bitterly to be true; not that there are not among us good hearts and good dispositions, and in the description of these he is as charming as in his most bitter satire. Who can read Pendennis, without feeling a genuine admiration for honest Bluebeard? Who can help liking that young rascal Pen, with all his faults? Who can help admiring dear Laura Bell? We know that young Jenkins, the great swell of this school, when he reads this, (should he condescend to do so) will pronounce it absurd, and say that Laura is horridly insipid, and that he prefers Miss Amory. Well, if he likes that femme incomprise, as honest Ned Strong calls her, by all means let him admire her, but dont let him expect us to do so too; we, ourselves think her the most odious, disagreeable young lady indeed, she is no other than Becky Sharp in a new dress. Let us hope that there are few Miss Amorys.

:

Dickens is also a charming writer, and his works are perhaps deservedly compared to Thackeray's; we read his books with pleasure; and they make us laugh, and amuse us, but still we feel it a serious drawback, to know that his characters do not exist, that they are merely the offspring of his own imagination, or in some cases (as in Miss Mowcher) individual portraits. Micawber, Jane Murdstone, and Mr. Dick, are characters as fabulous as Gog and Magog. While, therefore, we admit that Dickens has infinitely more humour than Thackeray, we think that he is far inferior to him in his general portraits of human nature. Vanity fair and Pendennis will be in every library long after we are no more: their satire will be appreciated as long as they exist, while the humour of Dickens, matchless though it be, will not be understood.

THE DEAF AND DUMB CHILD. THEY say thy voice is clear, mother,

As the sound of the silver bell; Soft as the rippling brook, mother, As it murmurs through the dell.

But I ne'er have heard the lark, mother,
Or the sound of the silver bell;

I know not the voice of the bubbling brook
As it trickles through the dell.

And the Deaf one cannot tell, mother,
How sweet thy voice may be,

Its dulcet strains for aye, mother,
Must sound unheard by me.

But I see thy gentle smile, mother,

And I know thou lov'st me well, And it hath a charm for me, mother, Which none but I can tell.

And I feel thy white, soft hand, mother, Pressed gently on my brow,

And I do not ask a happier lot,

Than the lot that chains me now.

And I see thy pitying eye, mother,

And I feel thy tender kiss, And I do not pray for happier things, For greater joys than this.

For I think if I could hear, mother,
I should not care so much
To see thy tender look, mother,

Or to feel thy tender touch.

And I do not wish for speech, mother,

To make my wishes known; For the Good God hath given me

A language of my own.

And I do not care what others talk

For they are nought to me; And I feel that I have all, mother,

In having only thee.

And I love thee very dear, mother,

For thy tender, loving care; And every night, before I sleep, I breathe this silent prayer.

"Oh! Father, when thou pleasest
To take her soul away,

I pray thee, make no tarrying
In that sad and mournful day;

But take me to her quickly,

For I know, when she is gone, That none like her will watch and love Her poor deformed son."

THE CHURCH-YARD.

HERE sleep the dead: how soundly! the loud call
Of multitudes around them swells unheard;
No sound of traffic, strife or festival,

Strikes their dull ear, once safely sepulchred.
In hearts they loved, the chord of joy is stirred,
Their's beat no sympathy: pass friend or foe,
Alike they're unregarded; work nor word

Of man disturbs death's tenantry below.
The marriage peal rings out; the funeral knell
Saddens our hearts; they never ask for whom ;

No news from their dark domicile they tell,

Nor any seek from ours to cheer their gloom;
How brief the time ere we with them must dwell,
Our world death's empire, and our home the tomb.

And thou, child wanton! thou hast made the grave
Thy place for revel, and the light wind's breath
That stirs its flowers and bids thy tresses wave,
Not less disturbs thee than the thought of death.
Unconscious child! his ghastly works beneath
To thee are meaningless; around thy brow
Fancy entwines a joyous flow'ry wreath,

And paints thy future being blest as now.
Oh! when the awful truths shall stand revealed,
Death's dread reality, the grave's stern power,
Be He thy refuge, who in dying sealed

Man's claim to immortality's pure dower.
Then may'st thou smile indeed, and on the grave
Trampling with holy scorn, its darkest secrets brave.

Scene.—A BEDROOM.

SHELLEY-of the Twenty-Poetically inclined. JENKINS-Præpostor.

HOPKINS-Lower Middle, No. 2.

SHELLEY. (Solus, "Rugbæan," in his hand.) "Well! I think this is the best number we've had! My last poem,-yes! looks rather well, too!"

JENKINS.-(loquitor).

·

"Why

Enter. Shelley, you're at it again, the Rugbæan, eh? any better than usual? any more steps along the passage wall,' or ' vanities of feelings' or any other obscurities after the style of the poet Laureate? (takes up the Rugbæan,) ha! ha! "The wind blows chilly without, love,' very true, very true! that just suits this cold evening; the author must have a fine imagination. O dear! what's this? 'stings of her own love.' What twaddle! but I suppose it has some hidden meaning not to be fathomed by us humble individuals. Perhaps you'll explain it, Shelley?"

SHELLEY.-(embarrassed). “Oh! think a little. Dont you understand? Why you know -the stings-oh yes-you understand it, but do read Galileo."

Enter HOPKINS.-" Galileo! What's the odds? wasn't he the horse that won the Queen of Otaheite's cup last year?-(opens his betting book) Ah! I lost a mint of money on him."

SHELLEY. "You idiot, if you knew that was -ha, stop, nothing but betting suits you fast men."

JENKINS. "Golden-red with early sunrise. Hum,-rather strong, pray, is it the dark and chilly wall? or is it the day's first splendour,' that is golden red? Oh that's the celebrated colour of the red gold of ancient ballads--fine thought that? Error-drunken eyes.' Highsounding! makes the line run SO well. Error in the light of a spirituous liquor; suggesting mistily pleasant ideas of rum-toddy,

&c.

SHELLEY. 666 'Light and shade,' you must confess is very good."

JENKINS. 'Well I think if the writer's

mind had a little more of that light and less of that shade he so beautifully delineates, those elegant stanzas would never have entered your select columns. Perfect sight is perfect bliss.' They meet the glare and find but night.' Who? People or Moths? You know we're told that the old painters wrote under their productions, 'This is an Elephant.' "This a Turnip'; This, a Warming Pan.' I think if our more enlightened friend would explain in the same way, he would do a great service to his humble servant, who still sits in shade looking for light' on the subject, but, unlike the writer, has no hope of 'finding it in the realms of night.' But here is the lout for the candles. We must leave off our conversation for the more pleasing occupation of sleep. Your obedient servant,

Lady-day, 1851.

RUGBY SCIENTIFIC SOCIETY.

A paper was read by one of the fellows of the Society, referring to some remarkable phenomena attending the publication of this journal. Copies which had formerly passed through the post-office for a penny, had, on this occasion, received a remarkable increase of weight, so that the penalties of the law had been exacted from them. Whether this was owing to an increase of the earth's gravitation, or to the superior solidity and strength of the number in question, it was hard to say. The writer, however, had come to the latter conclusion after a series of experiments; some of which he performed before the Society. They consisted in weighing separately the articles of the number; and were curious, as exhibiting the difference in atomic weight of prose and poetry. With reference indeed to the latter, he flattered himself that in it he had discovered the existence, so long denied, of an imponderable substance: as a large quantity of it produced no deflexion in the nicest balance. This was, however, counterbalanced by the great ponderableness of the prose. If this explanation was well grounded, subscribers should not complain: as he had found that this increase of solidity was quite equivalent to two pennyweights. In case this explanation was not entirely satisfactory, there was still another,

namely, that the copies having been taken in a wet state from the printer's hands to the postoffice, the subscribers had been obliged to pay for the moisture of the ink as well as its colour. This should be remedied for the future, as all Baconians would agree that it was highly desirable that the Rugbæan "lux" should be "sicca," not "humida."

But to speak seriously; we are sorry that any of our friends should have had to pay double for the postage of the last number, though as far as we can learn, this has happened only to our Oxford subscribers; a copy, however, was weighed before posting, and was under the requisite half-ounce, and after the complaint of overweight reached us, another was weighed with the same result.

CONSOLATION.

They told him that the storm was loud,

That few came home;

That his son was swathed in the general shroud
Of the dashing foam.

The father heard, and bowed his head.
He made no sign of woe,

But it was not time that o'er him shed
The tell-tale drift of snow,

He lingered on, but his mind was gone,
Or rather, death-like sleeping;
Oh who shall wake it up again,

Were it e'en to pain and weeping?
There came a stranger,-to his beck

He returned nor sign nor sound."I bring thee a fragment of the wreck Wherein thy son was drowned."

Then trembles a light from the father's eyes,
That the tear-drops quickly dim;
But the spell was broken by that one rude token,
For it guided his thought to him.

It linked the present and the past;

It clothed the waste of years
With the happy flowers of earlier hours,

Though they now were fed by tears.

We have not been in the habit of advertising, but we can see no reason for not printing the following ADVERTISEMENT.

assist the advertiser in the Composition of third copies and English verse copies.N.B.-No fledgling Tennyson need apply.

Direct to I. W. SCHOLASTICUS, Lawrence Sherriff's Street, Rugby.

No. IX.]

MILTON.

Would Milton have written his Paradise Lost if cast on a desert island? is one of the carping questions asked in the spirit of scorn, by the little minded who long to see all as small as themselves. It is a question however which may be asked seriously and candidly, as well as scornfully; and is therefore worth trying to

answer.

The few glimpses of personality scattered through Paradise Lost, transgress as they may the arbitrary rules of Aristotelian critics, are, to most readers, as they should be,-very interesting; from one of these we see that through the whole course of that troubled life, he had been "long choosing and beginning late" the subject for his great work; that which "after times should not willingly let die.”

A

So we see that above and beyond the fierce battlings and firm stand for freedom, which to the en ofis time most likely seemed to engross all his powers, there was an end and an object, growing silently and surely, till piercing through the dark soil of earthly strife, it spread its eternal leaves and branches into the pure air and light.

If we ask the question, why did Milton write, some, perhaps through a wish to defend the poet by attributing to him as high motives as possible, will point to the beginning of the poem, and give as his motive,

To assert eternal Providence

And justify the ways of God to men. This motive pleases us from its grandeur; but is it the true one? if not we must discard it. Now Milton's first plan was to write an epic poem on Arthur; and it was not till late years that the sacred subject occurred to him, which he at last chose. And we find elsewhere that his great wish was not to write a didactic poem, but " to leave something so written to aftertimes as that they should not willingly let it die."

Here it is," says your man of common sense, "how much for disinterested motives, and that kind of stuff? bless you, all he wanted was

[TWOPENCE.

to be clapped on the back and called a fine poet," self love is at the bottom of it after all.”

To objectors of such a spirit it is useless to reply; but some of those who hear them may be staggered. Milton surely might have written a great number of Comuses; they would have sold better, and would certainly have brought him more fame from his age. Surely it did not shew much self love, in fact a great want of common sense, to write no more Comuses, or King Arthurs, but to shut himself up with his books in poverty and a threadbare coat, and after years of incessant toil produce something for which the world and the honourable cavaliers did not even give him thanks, and the booksellers but thirteen pounds

Milton has now, what he had not then, “a fit audience, though few;" but what does that profit him? we cannot crown his temples with the laurel that his age withheld; and we know not if his spirit can perceive the mental tribute of adoration. Then why did he write? Simply because he could not help it; because he followed the instinct so deeply implanted in our nature of striving for immortality. The difference between him and smaller men being that they follow that instinct blindly, and make it subservient to a petty longing of men's flattery which they can only obtain by ornamented falsehoods; Milton made this instinct subservient or rather concordant with truth, and he knew well that it would one day be found out that beauty and truth are in the end synonymous.