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THEOPHRASTUS REDIVIVUS.

No. I. THE TIGER.

"Quale portentum neque militaris
Daunia in latis alit esculetis

Nec Jubæ tellus generat, leonum

arida nutrix."

LET Tigerism be defined an affectation of taste more than common in manners and dress; and your Tiger is the sort of man who, having seen a new fashion in a print-shop window, will adopt it, and carry it to the extreme; and who, if plaid waistcoats were the mode, would have plaid trousers also, of the largest pattern. At school he exhibiteth his propensities by being a "Sunday buck," and wearing in the week a large gold chain over very slovenly clothes. When at college he driveth an ill-matched tandem early in the morning, and may be seen in the afternoon walking up Heddington Hill, his shabby gown loosely thrown over a new green coat with metal buttons. He rejoiceth in a tassel of unusual length, which falleth yet nearer his shoulder from a fortunate split, which extendeth across the surface of his cap, and thus avoideth any unseemly regularity.

He purposely taketh an old gown from a wine-party, that, being bronzed, dirty, ragged, and too short, it may bully the Proctors. He talketh of his “Smalls,” his "Great," and his "Long," and would sooner die than not scratch out "Mr." on his printed card.

He abjureth mediocrity as something no more conceded to gentlemen than it is to poets. Such an one cherisheth long ringlets under the rim of his hat, and hath no end of whiskers, for they meet under his chin.

He cometh to a dejeuné in thin shoes and broad-striped silk stockings. When he driveth out, he goeth out of his way to pass through the most frequented streets. He keepeth his cab to stand long at the door of his Club, and hath a namesake behind of most diminutive stature. He must have nothing in the common way. He driveth a piebald horse, or rideth a pony so that his legs touch the ground. A man of this style, if he be very tall, will have a very small dog; if short, a Newfoundland of more than ordinary size. He will wear one very large ring, and going to play at quoits will put on white kid gloves. At dinner he calleth for some foreign dish or sauce which he knows his host does not possess, and will not drink wine because there is no Burgundy at table. He playeth not at whist except for guinea points, and letteth every one know that he preferreth Hazard. He useth many perfumes, whereof his room also is odoriferous, mingled with the stale fumes of tobacco. He would smoke a cigar at a Pic-nic, and having ill-learned to sing, accompanieth himself on the guitar. He sitteth on his ottoman at home for effect, attired in his dressing-gown en Turc. He raveth of Tasso, not knowing Italian. He talketh of Harrington and D'Orsay. He hath on his table many new French novels, the "Age," Metastasio, a riding-whip, three cigar-cases, four scent-bottles, one liqueur-case, and many notes and cards, of which he contriveth that the franks and titles shall lie uppermost. If he receiveth a note on pink paper, he hinteth that he cannot accompany you to the play as he promised, and ringeth the bell to know if Lady's servant is waiting for an answer. If you meet him at the Opera, he noddeth to a box in the second tier, and goeth out, but lingereth in the lobby. I say nothing of his waistcoats. He is

more obnoxious than the " Dandy," but more harmless than the "Blood." In a word, he effects, by externals, that superiority of taste which does not exist in his own mind, and falls into the ridiculous by attempting the sublime. He is the "Magnus Apollo" of ladies' maids, and the Cynosure of tailors' apprentices.

STRAY TENDRILS.

MEMORY.

Dost remember

How in a night like this we climb'd yon walls,
Two vagrant urchins, and with tremulous joy
Skimm'd through these statue-border'd walks that gleam'd
In bright succession? Let us tread them now,
And think we are but older by a day,

And that the pleasant walk of yesternight
We are to-night retracing.”

ION, Act. iv. Scene 3.

MEMORY'S dim thought!

In visionary semblance to my soul

Thy charm hath brought,

Like summer's evening sky from pole to pole

Beshot with light,

A mellow picture of my school-boy days;

In radiance bright

Again fond fancy all their joys surveys.

My every sense

Of consciousness imbibes the subtle thrill,

That trickling thence

Intoxicates my frame with friendship still,

While I retrace

Those frolic moments that I ne'er could blame,

E'en though disgrace

And stern monition from preceptors came.

But, ah! those friends

Where are they? where ?-The thought is full of pain!
Yet gladness bends

Her rainbow o'er the cloud;-for some remain.

J. S.

THE PASSAGE OF THE DESERT.

'Tis burning noon! Across the desert plain
Winds the long caravan; from shores afar
Homeward their steps are bent: a happy train!
For ere yon sun hath left his radiant car
Their journey will be o'er! The cheering thought
Renerves each limb, and makes e'en weakness strong.
Forgotten now the toil, the parching drought,

While loudly swells the turban'd line along,

In thankfulness and joy, the Moslem's choral song!

"Allah il Allah! the Desert is past!

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'The halls of our home will receive us at last!

From the dark eyes which mourn for the loved one's delay We shall chase the bright tears ere the close of to-day!

We have toil'd in the heat of the desert sun's ray,

"But the sweet thought of home has enliven'd the way : "Through perils and dangers unnumber'd we've past,

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But the joys of our meeting will pay them at last!

"Above us the Prophet hath stretch'd forth his hand,

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He hath brought us unharm'd through the ocean of sand, "He hath kept the simoom and the whirlwind away,

He hath guarded by night, he hath guided by day!

"Allah il Allah! the Desert is past!

"The halls of our home will receive us at last! "From the dark eyes which mourn for the loved one's delay "We shall chase the bright tears ere the close of to-day!"

K.

THUNDER.

THE mighty Thunder on its rattling car
Rolls through the trembling heavens from afar
Awful and deep; while, heralds of the crash,
Athwart the clouds the forked lightnings flash!
Well might we deem, when on the startled ear
Louder and louder fall those sounds of fear,
That Death's pale steed, by Patmos' seer foretold,
Had burst his bonds, impetuous, uncontroll'd,

And with his clatt'ring hoofs, at ev'ry bound,

From the high base of heav'n compell'd that awful sound!

то

TO A PICTURE.

I GAZE upon thee, nature's child,
From ev'ry guile and sorrow free;
The snow that girds the mountain wild
Is not more pure or fair than thee.

The beaming look that lights thy face,

Like the vesper's flush when the sun is set,
Each winning smile, each untaught grace,
Bespeak thee all, dear Margaret.

SESAME.

ON THE MORNING OF HER MARRIAGE.

I WOULD not mar the thousand joys

That fling their incense round thee now;
Go-give, ere yet its sweetness cloys

Thy giddy sense, the promised vow.

I have no skill, as others have,
To weave my miseries in a wreath
Of tutored poesy, to hide

The burning brow that throbs beneath.

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