an avenue to enter in at. NAT. You certainly do not consider any conceptions good and worthy of representation, but those of a sound mind. For that, sanity is necessary to genius. Yet you must admit-for, as a strong case, I return to the Centaurs that the conception of these monsters arose from terror, which is not the sane state of the mind. It is a state in which we see things not as they are. The enemy that first made their appearance descending from the hills on horseback, in the terror caused by the strangeness of the object, were taken, man and horse, for one creature. Here fear set aside reason; and it is surely doubly absurd to perpetuate, when reason returns, what could only be conceived in the absence of reason. IDE. Well, we will say that terror was the parent of the idea; but I cannot admit that terror is not a sane state of the mind; it is the very condition of human nature to be subject to terror —moreover, it is enough for my purpose in the argument to show that it is natural. To express the ideas that the mind naturally under any circumstances conceives, is legitimate to the province of poetry and painting. Nor are you prepared to say that the mind in a state not sane, may not conceive ideas grand and beautiful, and such as might find a ready reception in all minds, and create for themselves a sufficient belief. But mark how some action given to the creature, shall bring forward the power and grandeur of it, so as at once to take out of you the conceit of your knowledge, that the creature never could be. You see it has life and motion, and you question no further. "Ceu duo Nubigenæ cum vertice montis ab alto Descendunt Centauri; Homolen Othryn que nivalem Linquentes cursu rapido: dat euntibus ingens, Sylva locum, et magno cedunt virgulta fragore."- Virgil. Here you see two cloud-born creatures, from the brow of a lofty hill, descend. You know not what-you wonder, are amazed-are prepared for something extra-human, and the next word tells you they are Centaurs. Then you see them in their rapid course-too rapid to allow you to scrutinize their forms-quitting Ho. mole and the snowy Othrys, they enter the woods, the woods give way as they pass, and you hear nothing but the crash of branch and leafage. Away they fly. The vision has passed; but the remembrance of it never: and will you coolly turn round, and swear you could have seen nothing, for the creatures must have had each two stomachs, and think it an impossibility? We are all apt to yield a more ready belief to fancy, than you give even yourself the credit for doing. It is natural--we begin it with infancy, and if we lose the power, it is only in a morbid state of knowledge. Some are fearful we shall believe too much in works of fancy-you too little for enjoyment. Bottom thought that Snug, the joiner, should show half his face through his lion's mane, and advertise himself to the ladies as a man, as other men are, for "there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living." After all, it is better to give a little credit to fancy, one's own or of others, than to stick and flounder in the mire of what we choose to term realities. It is a pleasant refuge, sometimes, from the damp dispiriting streets and alleys, and vexatious business of every-day life, to go off with fancy to the woods and wilds, to the sea and to the rivers, that are not within geographical limit, to see the pastimes of Silenus and his satyrs, wood nymphs and water nymphs; to hear, as Wordsworth says in one of his sonnets, old Triton wind his wreathed horn; and see Proteus coming from the sea and gathering his phoca around him. Keep your fancy healthy whatever you do, and do not take every waking dream for a symptom of disease. We are, as I think Wordsworth says, too much of the world, and the world is too much with us. Come and race with that wild Bacchante, that on a Centaur's back is goading him on with a thyrsus. Do you doubt its reality, because you see it is a copy from a picture from Pompeii or Herculaneum? Then you will be happier in your dream if you can keep up the chase, and even when you wake, believe it to be one of the truths of nature. "For so to interpose a little ease, let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise." NAT. Farewell then, you have more than half brought on somnambulism, for I feel myself sleepy. CALEB STUKELY. PART III. COLLEGE. PROVIDENCE has wisely ordained that the occupations of mankind, comprehending those of childhood, boy hood, and the more serious transactions of manhood, shall be regarded in the light of duties, and be invested, as they successively rise up, with an importance of the most absorbing and exclusive character. I say wisely, because although, no doubt, in many instances, the consequence that is attached to human events is factitious, and inversely to their actual significance; yet, if such a provision did not exist, it is greatly to be feared that a healthy regard to our moral state and improvement, and the necessary la bour that is required for our welldoing and success, would both be lost sight of. It is only by meeting the exigencies of life with the juice and marrow of our energies, that we are able to satisfy the demand; and it is only by attaching momentous weight to the incidents of our condition, that we can at all hope to find strength and ability to pass onward and through them. It is a curious employment in the latter days for the eye of experience to look back upon the past, and to feign a huge surprize that so many trifling matters, now passed into oblivion, should have roused up in former years so many great alarms, demanded such heart-searching cares, engrossed so many sleepless nights. But no less curious is it for us to behold experience turn from the contemplation of the past to the doings of the present, and to find the wise and the aged harassed by the smallest accident, busy in contrivances, overwhelmed in careful thought, wholly taken up with the occupation of the moment, which in a night shall be forgotten, or regarded with a placid eye, but is now dwelt upon as if the only business of his life was knotted and bound up in it. What can be said of such a one, but that he, and all of us, have instincts like the meaner animals, and nature worketh wisely? As I myself review the early days of my career, I cannot sufficiently marvel at the engrossing nature of my college pursuits. How disproportionate do they now seem to the daily fears, the constant anxieties, the deep distresses, and the ceaseless tear and wear of spirit, that they occasioned ! I cannot but think that it would be far otherwise were they to return upon me now. Alas! why should I deceive myself? The same events would to-day claim the same tribute. Let the unerring fact plead with the reader for the minuteness with which I dwell upon my Cambridge days. I awoke from the state of syncope into which I had been thrown by the unhappy result of the contest, to be conscious of a degradation, deep and insupportable. What could I do? Whither should I go? How escape from the ridicule which every man would cast upon me? To have been beaten was now not the consideration. To be known as defeated-to be recognized as the man who had so modestly condescended to receive the premature congratulation of his friends— who had made sure of his prize, and missed it after all!-to live in the college, a memorable instance of disappointed hope, and vanquished selfsufficiency;-this, all this, was not to be borne. I walked about my room in a state of inconceivable wretchedness and mental disturbance. Simmonds sat over the fire, imploring me to be at peace, and raking away at the cinders to conceal his own too evident grief. 39 "Do not take on so, sir," said the old man; "what is the use of it? This only makes matters worse. "Oh, Simmonds!" I exclaimed, "what will the men think?" "Yes, and what will they think next year," asked Simmonds, with a vain attempt at cheerfulness, "when you have beaten every one of them?" "And my poor father, what will say ?" he Why, what can he say, sir? Every body knows you did your best "No," I answered quickly," I did an avenue to enter in at. NAT. You certainly do not consider any conceptions good and worthy of representation, but those of a sound mind. For that, sanity is necessary to genius. Yet you must admit-for, as a strong case, I return to the Centaurs that the conception of these monsters arose from terror, which is not the sane state of the mind. It is a state in which we see things not as they are. The enemy that first made their appearance descending from the hills on horseback, in the terror caused by the strangeness of the object, were taken, man and horse, for one creature. Here fear set aside reason; and it is surely doubly absurd to perpetuate, when reason returns, what could only be conceived in the absence of reason. IDE. Well, we will say that terror was the parent of the idea; but I cannot admit that terror is not a sane state of the mind; it is the very condition of human nature to be subject to terror -moreover, it is enough for my purpose in the argument to show that it is natural. To express the ideas that the mind naturally under any circumstances conceives, is legitimate to the province of poetry and painting. Nor are you prepared to say that the mind in a state not sane, may not conceive ideas grand and beautiful, and such as might find a ready reception in all minds, and create for themselves a sufficient belief. But mark how some action given to the creature, shall bring forward the power and graudeur of it, so as at once to take out of you the conceit of your knowledge, that the creature never could be. You see it has life and motion, and you question no further. "Ceu duo Nubigenæ cum vertice montis ab alto Descendunt Centauri; Homolen Othrynque nivalem Linquentes cursu rapido: dat euntibus ingens, Sylva locum, et magno cedunt virgulta fragore."- Virgil. Here you see two cloud-born creatures, from the brow of a lofty hill, descend. You know not what-you wonder, are amazed-are prepared for something extra-human, and the next word tells you they are Centaurs. Then you see them in their rapid course-too rapid to allow you to scrutinize their forms-quitting Ho. mole and the snowy Othrys, they enter the woods, the woods give way as they pass, and you hear nothing but the crash of branch and leafage. Away they fly. The vision has passed; but the remembrance of it never: and will you coolly turn round, and swear you could have seen nothing, for the creatures must have had each two stomachs, and think it an impossibility? We are all apt to yield a more ready belief to fancy, than you give even yourself the credit for doing. It is natural--we begin it with infancy, and if we lose the power, it is only in a morbid state of knowledge. Some are fearful we shall believe too much in works of fancy-you too little for enjoyment. Bottom thought that Snug, the joiner, should show half his face through his lion's mane, and advertise himself to the ladies as a man, as other men are, for "there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living." After all, it is better to give a little credit to fancy, one's own or of others, than to stick and flounder in the mire of what we choose to term realities. It is a pleasant refuge, sometimes, from the damp dispiriting streets and alleys, and vexatious business of every-day life, to go off with fancy to the woods and wilds, to the sea and to the rivers, that are not within geographical limit, to see the pastimes of Silenus and his satyrs, wood nymphs and water nymphs; to hear, as Wordsworth says in one of his sonnets, old Triton wind his wreathed horn; and see Proteus coming from the sea and gathering his phoca around him. Keep your fancy healthy whatever you do, and do not take every waking dream for a symptom of disease. We are, as I think Wordsworth says, too much of the world, and the world is too much with us. Come and race with that wild Bacchante, that on a Centaur's back is goading him on with a thyrsus. you doubt its reality, because you see it is a copy from a picture from Pompeii or Herculaneum? Then you will be happier in your dream if you can keep up the chase, and even when you wake, believe it to be one of the truths of nature. "For so to interpose a little ease, let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise." Do NAT. Farewell then, you have more than half brought on somnambulism, for I feel myself sleepy. CALEB STUKELY. PART III. COLLEGE. PROVIDENCE has wisely ordained that the occupations of mankind, comprehending those of childhood, boyhood, and the more serious transactions of manhood, shall be regarded in the light of duties, and be invested, as they successively rise up, with an importance of the most absorbing and exclusive character. I say wisely, because although, no doubt, in many instances, the consequence that is attached to human events is factitious, and inversely to their actual significance; yet, if such a provision did not exist, it is greatly to be feared that a healthy regard to our moral state and improvement, and the necessary labour that is required for our welldoing and success, would both be lost sight of. It is only by meeting the exigencies of life with the juice and marrow of our energies, that we are able to satisfy the demand; and it is only by attaching momentous weight to the incidents of our condition, that we can at all hope to find strength and ability to pass onward and through them. It is a curious employment in the latter days for the eye of experience to look back upon the past, and to feign a huge surprize that so many trifling matters, now passed into oblivion, should have roused up in former years so many great alarms, demanded such heart-searching cares, engrossed so many sleepless nights. But no less curious is it for us to behold experience turn from the contemplation of the past to the doings of the present, and to find the wise and the aged harassed by the smallest accident, busy in contrivances, overwhelmed in careful thought, wholly taken up with the occupation of the moment, which in a night shall be forgotten, or regarded with a placid eye, but is now dwelt upon as if the only business of his life was knotted and bound up in it. What can be said of such a one, but that he, and all of us, have instincts like the er animals, and nature worketh ly? As I myself review the early di not do my best: this would not have happened if I had. I have been too careless all through, and this is the consequence." "If you had not been so ill, I am sure you would have done a great deal more. You were knocked up before you went in." I was appeased by the good man's remark. "Yes, Simmonds, I was ill-very ill-and the men must have observed it. Do you not think so?" "No doubt of it, sir; and Mr Smithson has such a constitution! I am sure nothing would bring his flesh down. Doesn't he look like it?" "He looks more like a bricklayer than a gentleman," I answered pettishly. "Who is this Smithson ?" "Don't you know, sir? He is Mr Squareroot's nephew, and the son of a Norfolk clergyman." "What!" I exclaimed, almost knocked down with surprize, "what is it you say? Smithson, the tutor's nephew? Squareroot's?-the tutor's?" "Yes, sir, the tutor's." "This then is the secret of it all." (Ah me! why was I so eager to jump at any but the simple and apparent cause of my defeat?) "No wonder that I am beaten. Newton would not have been successful. Indeed he would not. And poor Grimsley too," (this with marked tenderness,) "no wonder that your quiet spirit and cultivated mind were doomed to succumb! Is this generally known, Simmonds ?" "Oh, bless you! yes, sir. In the college all the gentlemen know it, but he is not a great favourite with them. He is not very friendly in his manner, and he keeps a good deal to himself." "Now answer me, Simmonds. Do not you, for one, feel satisfied that favour has been shown to Smithson, and I have lost the scholarship unfairly?" "Why, as to that, sir, I cannot say, really—I don't think" "Ah, poor fellow, you dare not tell me what you think! You eat their bread, and are bound to them. It is not so with me. Let them be assured the matter shall not rest here." "I think you are wrong, I do indeed, sir," said the gyp. "Mr Squareroot is a gentleman of strict integrity, and, I believe, would rather lose his hand than let it do a dirty action. It is Mr Smithson's constitution, sir, and nothing else, believe me." I answered my worthy friend with a sneer, and truly happy was I to find, an hour afterwards, that I did not stand alone in the suspicions that I entertained of the justice and honour of the college functionary. Simmonds's remark respecting Smith. son was certainly a correct one. He was not a favourite in the college, but let me do him the justice to state why. His appearance, as I have before hinted, was not of the taking character. It partook largely of that known to university men by the name of snobbish. He was a short, bull-headed person, with coarse features, and a shaggy head of hair. Ornament was foreign to his person and dress. The latter, though clean generally, was always mean and inferior-looking. So much for himself. His father was, I was about to say, a poor man-necessitous is the better term. He was a gentleman by birth, by education, and by profession. In his profession he was distinguished by first-rate ability, untiring perseverance, and remarkable humility. I am ashamed to add, that the revenue of this man, the yearly reward of all his honourable toil— his wages-amounted not quite to eighty pounds per annum. With this miserable pittance he had contrived, for some years, to feed and clothe his wife, two children, and himself. Having been fortunate enough to get his son placed on the foundation of our college as a sizer, he managed further, by some peculiar process, to squeeze out a sum sufficient to meet the charges of a private tutor; to accomplish this, however, I have reason to know that father, mother, and sister, were making sacrifices at home really beyond belief, but with a loving cheerfulness that spoke almost too well for selfish, erring, human nature. When I say that the son, with a pious resolution, strove by every exertion, and by all means, to carry out the goodly work begun at home, separated himself from all other men, shut himself up in his own ill-furnished room, joined in no pleasures, partook of no friendships, and devoted his days to the building up of the fortunes of himself and family, I need add no more to convince the reader that he was heartily hated, and unreservedly cut, by every man of |