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procession of the Eton boys at Montem, He warned me at the same time that I should probably be rather surprised at the dresses, adding, that something was to be allowed for poetic license, which was reasonable enough, you know. Well, up we went, and there sure enough was the whole procession, beautifully sculptured it must be owned, but such dresses! I could not help remarking to the attendant that they were somewhat extraordinary, and he, thinking perhaps that I was one of the illiterate fellows so often brought down by the railway, wanted to persuade me it was a antick procession (antick it certainly was, to judge by the way they threw their arms and legs about) but thanks to my friend the Etonian, I had been beforehand with him there, as I soon let him know much to his astonishment.
We next made for the Chapel, and by great lack found an old man at the door of a very venerable appearance, who took us in and shewed us all that was to be seen. When we got in what was my surprise and indignation to find, that iostead of the regular respectable Church I had expected to see, I had set foot in the most heathenish, uncomfortable looking place I ever saw.
Instead of Christian-like warın pews to induce people of refinement and education to come to church, and by keeping out the vulgar to preserve those salutary distinctions without which the pillows of society would soon be snapped asunder like sticks, there was nothing but bare seats of the most uncomfortable description. In fact there was not a chance of going to sleep for anybody but quite the nobs who have seats round the walls. Then for a pulpit there was a great stone building with saints all over it, which I was afterwards told was little Collegers set up there for public washup, a sort of thing which I certainly should not have expected to see there. There was less to blame -certainly in the spare pulpit on the other side, which however was large enough to swing a cat in, if it was as big as a Smithfield ox. Altogether I was much disappointed, so we made the best of our way out again. As we were going the old man held out his hand to us, and I being willing to gratify him, shook hands with bim most cordially.
As we came down the steps from the Chapel our ears were assailed by the most extraordinary noises I ever heard, coming apparently from the long room I have before mentioned. At one time it was like an old Jew calling Clo' Clo' several times successively, and then it would rise by degrees to something approaching the squeak of an engine when rather at a loss for breath; in short there was no describing or understanding it. And this I was told was a music lesson. I was told too that the weaker members of the school complain that these musicians come up and beat them on the back, or stave in their hats on pretence of beating time; one even told me that his head had been cleft in consequence. The masters too I believe have found the classical compositions of their pupils very scaly of late, the boys attending more to Mr. Hullah's exercises than their own.
It was now getting late, so we went into the street to wait for the bus which was to take us to Slough. A great crowd of boys had assembled to see us off; so not to disappoint their pardonable curiosity we mounted outside; I had just pulled out my pocket pistol to fortify myself against the cold, when, unfortunately, some one threw a damp upon my spirits by accidentally hitting me with a rotten egg. How it could have happened I cannot imagine, I am quite sure that they cannot have meant it for me, from the respectful behaviour I met with the whole time I was there.
Thus ended our trip to Windsor, which but for the unlucky incident just mentioned would have been as amusing as it has been instructive.
Yours, till extinction,
Peter Pillbocks. Sept. 20, 1842.
A RESTLESS NIGHT.
Where dwellest thou, still, droning under-song,
Of whose undying power I wont to read,
To peal one ceaseless warning note for me.
LINES Addressed to a friend on hearing that he was about to
Here, in this much loved spot,
To what the world is not,
The world is not thy home!
As through life's paths they roam ;
The world is not thy rest !
Say who could there be blest?
The world will not be sport ;
mirth is short !
Then, ere thou quit'st this spot,
Think what the world is not,
There is an hour, when in the heart
All scarred with many a fearful sin, The waters of repentance start
And pour their healing tide within ;
Live o'er again his wasted years,
Boasts not a thought that's free from tears.
Perhaps the burthen of some song,
Learnt when a trifle gave him joy, Has waked an echo loud and long
Of the once careless happy boy : It tells how ou his father's knee
He heard sweet tales of by-gone years; Ah! could he then, poor child ! foresee
Not e'en this mem'ry free from tears.
Repentance comes ! the past hath flown
Like a dark cloud before the sun; Wrecked on life's shore he stands alone
And tracks the course his barque hath run. Oh! that some kindly angel's hand
Could blind to all but childhood's years, And man's dark deeds from out the sand
Be washed away by angel's tears!