There still are vales unsodden

By the tears that grief hath brought, There still are hills untrodden,

Deeds of glory still unwrought; And though none of these befal thee, Though in shade thy lot be cast, Let not lonely toil appal thee,

Let not lazy doubtings last; Work-not only for the laurel : Work-nor ever deem it hard; 'Tis a true and life taught moral, • Labour is its own reward.'

In mid-day heat some toiled,
Some in the milder morn,
Some hands with sweat are soiled,
Some, burdens ne'er have borne ;

The greater the annoyance,

The cost, the toil, the pain, The sweeter then the joyance,

The better then the gain. Then mourner, put on gladness; Then coward, cease to fear; Better were merry madness Than sleepy sorrow here.

SICK BED PLEASURES.

'Tis weary to lie in a restless bed

Till the close of the livelong day, With a sullen pain in the heavy head That allows not of work nor play;

'Tis trying to hear the well-known feet Come along the passage wall,

To yearn the well-known voice to greet, And yet be too weak to call;

'Tis weary to hear the chimes at night, The quarters an hour apart;

To long for the day, yet to loathe the light,
With a faint and a fretful heart.

But 'tis sweet indeed when a gentle tap
Says "may a friend come in?"
With a sound too soft to disturb a nap
If you were slumbering;

And a light step over the floor will glide,
(You can neither smile nor frown,)
And a gentle hand lays the curtain aside,
And eyes of love look down;

Like a song that is dreamt, a low voice calls
Whisperingly, "Better now !";
Softlier, kindlier, never falls

Dew on a broken bough:

And gentle fingers throw perfume,

Which love, more than scent, makes sweet, To charm away the aching gloom

Of the feverish forehead's heat.

Hours of sickness, I know, may tease;

But oh, they can never be weighed Against moments of pleasure so holy as these, No! then, they are more than repaid.

A SMALL BOY'S COMPLAINT TO THE

RUGBEAN.

SIR, I am a small boy, but very sensible. Now, Sir, I am in the room with seven others, and there is not one of them that I can talk with. I will candidly tell you my case, and shall expect to see my letter in print in the next Rugbæan, with advice from your sage self at the bottom. One of the seven is a new fellow, so of course I dont speak to him; I came last half. In the bed on each side of me are two very (really very) small boys; little dears who amuse themselves with calling one another names, asking nursery riddles, and making inroads upon one anothers dominions, while they look upon my territory as a kind of neutral ground, or debateable land, and a very good natural fortification. Such childishness is revolting to a boy of my staid and sensible character; and, to tell you the truth, (you needn't print this) it is all I can do to keep myself safe from personal violence from them, when I reprove in measured language their puerilities. However, Sir, these little things are generally asleep by ten, having been awed into bed and silence by the appearance of a sporting man and an exquisite, who, however different their outward appearance, and natural predispositions may be, as they are stars (or

indeed, since they have taken to the cauda virilis this half, you may call them comets) in very different lines, still they manage to meet on some common ground, and keep up a conversation respectably interesting (to themselves). The exquisite requests information about the Derby, which the betting man is very pleased to give him; for he feels himself, 1 think, to be rather a low breed of animal when he is out of the stable, and loses a good deal of his knowingness and self-possession, and in fact is quite humble, when he comes within reach of the scented atmosphere of the exquisite. It's much the same sort of feeling, I fancy, as a tinker's rat-catching tailless cur has towards a sleek Italian greyhound, mingled with the notion that all the same he knows a thing or two more than his elegant friend. And tailors too, I'm told, have it quite their own way, and form the aristocracy of an Equality, Fraternity-Chartist meeting. But that's neither here nor there. The elegant will sometimes, too, as he's brushing his curls, remonstrate with his friend for the length and looseness of bis waistcoat, and will suggest that it's better not to wear your hair as a shade for your eyes; remarks the betting man does not quite agree with, but still seems profoundly thankful for. By this time, however, one of the twain is unwashen in bed, and the other is still brushing his hair. The two sixth fellows of our room are now come to bed, and are engaged in a violent discussion about copies, and the res. pective chances of A and B for the Greeks and the English verse, in which again, Sir, I am unable to join. This is the most annoying conversation to be excluded from, as I feel that if it was but a subject that I was up in, my opinion would, of course, be very useful in determining the matter. Now I read the papers regularly, and know quite enough of the Corn Law question to floor a protectionist, also am very strong on the Papal Agression; so that if they would but discuss the great questions of the day, (or past history if they please) I dont care-(I got a first in History last Christmas) I should be able to take a part in the conversation, and they would, probably, have a great many new lights thrown upon their understandings. The fact is, they talk unmitigated shop, which is very ill-bred

.

of them, isn't it, Sir? I've the more right to ask your assistance as I've contributed several articles to your paper, chiefly poems. By the bye you've by some mistake never printed any of my things yet; I suppose you must have lost the originals; so, as I've no doubt you'll be glad of them, I send you duplicates of all my poems; you need not print them all at the same time, your know. Yours truly,

A GREAT SOUL IN A LITTLE BODY. [We recommend our friend to burn his poems, stick to his Latin grammar, and fraternize with the little innocents.-ED.]

BIG-SIDE LEAPING, HOMERICE. And already mid-day was come; and the noble Rugbæans had determined within themselves, having run to the well-grassed meadows, to exercise their dear limbs, and to leap over the fair-flowing stream of reedy Swift. So the youths were gathered together, the choicest before the well-studded gates; and even as white swans that, in the dark autumn, sail down a muddy stream, so did the white greaves of them advancing appear conspicuous; and each one tightened his polished girdle, and all proceeded in order. But when indeed they came to the stream, and the far-stretching meadows, immediately they prepared to contend in the active contest. Then did the lightfooted Brown, the son of his father, standing among the other Rugbæans, thus address them:-"Rise! all ye who will attempt this contest; for truly my brave heart and long legs beneath, urge me, having leaped over the thick bushes, to arrive on the other side of the stream." Thus he spoke, and quickly he moved his swift legs to run; and when indeed he came to the bushes and the water of the river, then having lifted himself as much as turnip-feeding sheep, who indeed leap the hurdles when the shepherd is not nigh at hand, and he, running after them, is angry in his grieved heart; so high then he having leaped, gained the opposite green-turfed bank in safety. And now would he alone have gained immortal honour, had not the noble Jones, running forward very swiftly, leaped over with willing mind. But the much-boast

ing Robinson in vain endeavoured to pass over by leaping; for already he was going to spring, having run as much as is wont, but, where the mud was trodden under the feet of many crumpled-horned oxen, there slipping suddenly he fell to the earth; and his mouth and his nostrils were filled with unpleasing mud. And spitting it out, he rose among the rest of the Rugbæans and said :-"Verily it is the earth only that has injured me, nor am I at all to blame; but it is not so with thee, O vain glorious Jones, for thee always does fortune assist." Thus then he spoke, and they all shouted with loud laughter against him. And after him came Simpson, but neither him did fortune befriend; for having run with unequal steps he leapt high, but fearing in his mind, he fell and was wetted as to his belt and well-striped jersey. And he cried out, looking to the others, "Help me, O comrades, I pray; whosoever has a strong arm, and stick in addition, with which having pulled, he may free me from the river." Nor did they disobey, but being pulled, he rose from the deep-clayed channel. So they passed along the stream; and now the sun would have set upon them leaping, had not the chief of the Rugbæans uttered winged words: "Hear me, and obey my words, as many of you as are here, being Rugbæans; for already the late evening overshadows the ways, and I judge that we must now turn back and go home, if at least we would escape darkness." Thus he spoke, exhorting; and they hasted, desiring to be filled with eating and drinking.

On Tuesday last, a levée of Big-side unanimously determined (upon the report of the committee nominated for the purpose) to accept of Mr. Haddon's tender for building a Cricket Pavilion. The building is to stand in the angle made by the island and the path round the close, so as to face exactly the centre of Big-side. Its exterior is to be in the Gothic style. A plinth of brick, about a foot high from the ground, is to go round the building-above that, planks one inch and a quarter thick. The view of the cricket ground is commanded from five openings, two with glass windows, three with wooden shutters, both windows and shutters being made to slide out of sight at pleasure. The building is divided

off into two partitions, one front and one back. The front room is 30 feet long, 12 feet broad, and 11 feet high, with an open roof and rafters. It is to have a table running down the centre. The entrance door is on the side next the island. Immediately on the left of the entrance door is a door leading to the bat-room, which is 4 feet by 6; a little further on the left is a small lobby, with a swing door, leading on either side to a dressing room, about 12 feet long by 6 feet broad, (containing a fire-place,) which will be fitted up with basons and cupboards for the use of the Eleven and Twentytwo, and strangers. Cost of the shell of the building £102 10s. ; fitting up the interior £2). At the same levee the accounts were audited; a motion was carried forbidding bowling upon the edge of Big-side, except in the case of Pie Matches, and first Eleven, House Matches.Mr. Pickard also announced that no one will, for the future, be considered a member of the School Eleven until he has played at Lord's.

BIG-SIDE LEAPING. ›

was

Big-side leaping, on Saturday the 1st, hardly so numerously attended, but the leaping was much better, than it had been on the previous day. Marriott, the two MacCarthy's, and Wimberley, distinguished themselves most. Towards the close of the day, there were some very broad leaps taken; MacCarthy major, and Marriott, going on for some time after the rest had given up. MacCarthy was the only one who was dry-shod at the end of the day but though he decidedly can clear a greater width, he is by no means so graceful a leaper as Marriott, nor indeed do we ever remember seeing any one who was, whether at height or breadth.

No. VII.]

OURSELVES, THE PUBLIC, AND OUR CONTRIBUTORS.

Those of our readers who have perused, in their childhood, the fable of the man, his son, and the ass, which they eventually carried between them, may sympathize with our feelings on the reception of a large amount of letters, containing the opinion of that motley monster denominated the Public, about our journal. A sort of Cerberus is this Public; with three sets of features as different as can be, and what is more important, with three pairs of jaws, each ravenous for its own kind of food, and each pouring out its own cry of contempt, disgust, or satisfaction. One correspondent (to descend from mythological heights) accuses us of being too light and trivial; of not having firmness or stability enough in our pages to secure them from the fate of the Sibyl's literary lucubrations.

Others again (whose voices

reach us at breakfast from the lower tables, and from younger sisters) accuse us of being heavy, dull, slow, and a heap of other vituperatives; missiles so easy to be launched by those who (shall we say it) are incapable of appreciating us! And the last voice-not loud alas! in fact almost drowned by the other two, but sweet as honey, and true as― s—but our modesty forbids us to say how true, and the discerning part of our readers will supply the appropriate simile.

But, in the meantime, what are we to do? Are we to take the advice of our graver friends, apply ourselves to metaphysics, and favour our readers with critiques on Locke, Kant, or Berkeley, and our own private opinions as to the spirituality of matter, or the materiality of spirit? Only now and then letting ourselves so far down as to apply theory to practice, and holding with Berkeley that "nothing exists except as perceived by some mind; luxuriate in doubt as to the existence of" copies" about which we have forgotten; and firmly deny that masters, writing schools, or Latin grammars, are anything more than "sensations?" Shall we do this or shall we go through an apprenticeship to Mr. Punch, and request him to fa

66

[TWOPENCE.

vour us with a disquisition on the Ars Jocandi? To our Cerberus then we say, after the manner of nurses to little boys, "Hold thy tongues, and be satisfied with that we give thee." But our contributors! what for them? For thanks are but starving diet, and the bitter cry of Rejection" begins to sound from among them. The young and promising author of the "Iron Age," which we were cruel enough not to insert, (intending to send it in, as our own, for the English verse prize,) shall he pine away prematurely à la John Keats, and we be branded by a future Shelley as a papyro-homicide? No! we will give utterance to his cry of grief, and if we cannot heal, at least we will not stifle, the ravings of

DESPAIR.

My gift was neglected, my poem returned,
My dream of distinction is past,

The swelling ambition that in my breast burned,
Has met with its downfall at last!

I had worked for an hour, that "ominous night,"
At a glorious copy of" Longs,"

When there flashed on my mind an idea so bright

As I took up a pair of tongs.

The fire was dimly burning, the coals were getting low,
I saw they wanted turning and fanning to a glow,
I grasped the tongs full firmly; their flames the light
regain,

And, meditating deeply, I hear this "inward strain." "Oh this is an emblem of art divine,'

Things are not what they seem,
And a pair of tongs is a glorious sign

Of the poet's noblest theme."
Then fast and thickly flowing
Came gushing through my brain,
In a "fine frenzy" glowing,
Imagination's train.

From a pair of tongs I soared in thought
Till I came to the Iron Age';
And as this was the best idea I caught,
I filled with it nearly a page,

I copied it out fairly, the Box received it then, 1 watched for its revival, but it ne'er appeared again: My spirit was sore stricken, I heaved a long low sigh, And my heart-my heart is breaking, and now I can but die.

We hope that the catastrophe dimly shadowed forth in the last line will not occur; but in the event (as the papers say) of a fatal issue, let it not be laid at our door. We are glad this time to acknowledge more assistance from the school in general; which is one of the chief things to be wished for the title of our journal should warn fellows that it should not be supported by the exertions of a limited few. With T. H. E.'s opinions we heartily concur, and thank him for the spirit of his letter. We have received two letters, expressing dissent from an article on Progress, which appeared in our fifth number one purports to be from an "Arnold" Rugbæan, who will not allow that our school is modern and destitute of great names; we are inclined, however, to support the writer of Progress in his opinion that, in the matter of prescript, we occupy no vantage ground; it is on ourselves we must rely for moral and intellectual fame; and the former rests with ourselves. The old Rugbæan was, as might be expected, indignant at the causes that produced such an article as the one on dress and foppery. "My opinion is not changed," he says, "but strengthened, that our old system and rules were best the youngsters were kept in subjection, and consequently the seniors were more respected; and if a fellow did get a licking sometimes it did him good, but I suppose that the swells' of the present day would be off to tell their tutors that their tie had been disarranged, their kid gloves soiled, &c. Time will prove whether the new system or the old will work the best." With this we cannot agree. It is needless now to call to mind the evils of the old system, or to reflect on the fate of fellows, some of whom it has case-hardened in crime, some have sunk under it; but we think it a very bad principle calmly to acquiesce in the necessity of two alternatives of evil; that we must have lynch law, or no law, must either do nothing, or do wrong. Our progress has been too quick; but it has been progress: revolting from the tyranny of former times, we

My name, like my father's, is John Hippesley. My father was a captain in the English infantry; of him I remember but little, for I was but six when he died at Waterloo. His dark stern look, full of energy, not often relaxing into gaiety, will never fade from me. But of himself-what he was, I never knew much; and all are long since dead that could tell me. I remember well, though, the intense unflagging love my mother bore for him; the anxiety with which she would read the account of one of the many engagements his regiment was in; the misery that seized the whole of her, on seeing, on one occasion, his name in the list of the wounded. It was a misery that lasted but a few days, and was ended, I remember, by a few lines from him, telling her that she reed have no fear for him, for he was out of all danger. Ir. utmost danger he had been, it appeared, and his life had, humanly speaking, been saved only by his own indomitable energy. He had insisted on being put on his horse and going on with the army, when the surgeons declared that movement would be death to him, and that he must be left behind. Some common soldiers, less badly wounded than my father, but more submissive to medical orders, were left; the enemy came up, and they died in a French prison. He recovered, and once again did I see him. My mother fainted at the news of his fearful wound, and I thought she was dead. I shrieked, but I could not stir; my shrieks brought a servant to the room; she was