The clock strikes twelve by the kitchen clock,

An hour, as Shakspeare has said, When witches and ghosts their frolics pursue, And each spectre has left his bed. The watch-dog barks a bark loud and long, And when he's done barking he growls; (A mastiff he was of the genuine breed)

And when he's done growling he howls.

And the farmer wakes out of dreams of his Mary,
Aroused by the mastiff's unwonted row;

He sits up in bed-and listens and wonders,
But the mastiff went bow, wow, wow.

He thinks for a moment-he jumps out of bed, And siezes a light and his gun,

He creeps down stairs, with a very quick tread, "With me they shall see it's no fun."

No, the locks are all right: and as firm as he left them, And bolted both windows and door

He looks carefully round every crevice and corner, The mastiff barks on as before.

He steps softly out, and he looks round about,
But he sees neither burglars nor thieves,
Nor hears he a sound but the bark of his dog,
But the night-wind shaking the leaves.

When, horrible sight! one to make the bones shake,
A tall, very tall form in white,

Just before his eyes, [the moon was at the full]
Rose in the bright moon-light.

Mr. Jones, for the truth must fully be told,
Was in a tremendous stew;

His hair stood upright—at least I supposed so,
Whose would'nt? I am sure very few.

Oh! Look the ghost speaks, now I am sure, I dont know
If ghosts always speak out in rhyme,

But of this you may be pretty sure I can tell you
That this one did this time.

"I am the spirit of the late Mrs. Jones, And I am come to tell ye

You must not marry that Mary Maguin, But marry Eliza Pelly."

Or did he suspect it! or did some spirit make Mr. Jones become suddenly bold?

He ran, pulled away [alas! ] a sheet and disclosed Eliza all shivering with cold.

THE IDEA.

One of the most powerful engines that has ever been known to act upon the mind of man, is that motion which we generally call an Idea. We generally associate ideas with poetry, which is a very legitimate association, inasmuch as Ideas have access to the highest parts of our nature, of which poetry is the voice, speaking as it were from the innermost shrine of the oracle. But though Ideas thus have very high and mighty connexions, though they sit enthroned on the high places of the earth, yet do they condescend to the very lowest offices, and "roll through all things." You could not buy that bat, or those stumps, or that penny bun without an idea, and a very magnificent and grand idea too, being called in to assist at a very early stage of the proceeding. A penny, a pound, and shilling, have in themselves a value next to nothing, they can neither feed, nor clothe, nor lodge you. How does it happen then that they are equivalent to all these things. It is an universal confidence every where existing which effects this: and it is one of the earliest offspring of civilization. Now the establishing of this coinage and this system rests on what we call an idea; and we see that this idea is necessarily pre-supposed in all, even the smallest, transactions of buying and selling.

In all great enterprises, in all enduring and splendid constitutions, in all bodies of men met together for one great end, the moving principle, and the animating principle is a great common Idea. In the early democracy of Athens, we recognise in the soul of each member of it, the grand ruling idea that Athens was and should be glorified, and that each citizen was glorified thereby. This prompted the most heroic sacrifices, and the boldest deeds; and raised that city to the height of power, and of fame, whose citizens were ready if necessary to serve her by their death, but saw at the same time that no blind devotion

could profit her like the willing devotion of a life; and cultivated for her sake alone, their powers of body and mind.

How intense was the zeal of the founders of the Jesuits; here too we see the same idea prompting both the fasts of Ignatius, and the missionary sufferings of Xavier. No religion has spread wider or deeper than our own; and what a sublime idea is there embodied: an idea which may excite the ambition of Princes to fulfil in the nations, and of the humble to realize to themselves.

Thus we see that the more exalted the idea that informs men is, the greater power it comes with. I will never believe that Hampden fought and died simply to procure the blessings of liberty for himself and his countrymen. The promised reward would have had but a slight efficacy to make him endure the present labour and toil. No! there was a mightier power at work within him, there was a mightier influence inspiring the whole kingdom. It was a great idea for which he fought, it was a grand idea that gave him strength to die. No future hopes of mere earthly good have power in themselves to support the sinking courage under great suffering. Faith itself in heavenly blessings is frequently too weak. Hope must be united to another living principle as vital as itself, and such a principle has most frequently been

balance for one moment against those which I have mentioned: but there seems to be a tacit consent to the plan, as though men saw that it was a good thing, and a grand thing; there seems to be some idea at work, which the mass are not yet prepared fully to accept. Verily it is a grand idea to unite the nations; but is it to be weighed against the many evils of this scheme? If it was the engrafting of a new and grand idea, if the people of England only would receive this, and let it arm them to the enduring of poverty, loss, and suffering, then we would say it was good, and let it work. But if the people will not bear this, if charity, though started from home, has not reached the ends of the earth, then we cannot but hold that this demonstration is at least premature. I am talking politics; but not party politics: it is only these last that you

exclude from your paper.

NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.

On the first of May, will be opened to the view of the whole world, a mighty exhibition of universal industry. How is this to be regarded.

Quo spectanda modo quo sensu credis et ore!

Many will tell you that it will injure many classes of men in this country, that it will bring with it disease and sickness; and some insist upon the amount of wickedness which will flow together to our capital. Dire evils these, and most worthy to be noted, most worthy of a ruler's care who would rule well. But are there no benefits to be derived from it. I have heard of none worthy to be weighed in the

often told in kindred forms: will he try

No. X.]

A. SCHOOL ARTICLE.

THE question being proposed by one of the members of the Johnsonian despotism, whether there were really such a thing as present enjoyment, and a discussion having arisen on the subject, the sage as usual very soon threw his warder down into the arena; his decision being "that the sole enjoyment which was not dependent upon expectation for its existence, was that of accelerated speed in a post chaise." Even this exception he retracted on the next day; and it is very curious to observe how very few pleasures there are which we cannot refer to memory or hope. Lovers of cricket affirm that one of these select few is produced at the actual moment of contact between a good bat and a ball which meditates a flight "for six" over the bowler's head, or a passing visit to the rooks' nests. This they say is quite distinct from the after pleasures arising from xûdos, and the applause of Bell's Life. How this may be, I cannot say, and therefore leave it to those who are more capable of judging. But the reference of the most of human pleasures to the past and future, agrees with Shakspeare's definition of man, as a being looking before and after." We are so apt, indeed, to be proud of this, as of a barrier which separates us from the brutes, that we seldom trouble ourselves about the cause. Yet this we know, that we are now in a middle state between two extremes of far greater happiness. We fell ; we are fallen; we hope to rise higher far than before. Can it be that, because we feel as we are bound to feel, dissatisfied with the gloomy, though not wholly barren valley, that this is one of the reasons why we look to the hills both behind and before? I say one of the reasons, because to look forward to a time when each moment shall possess a happiness so intense as entirely to engross the enjoyer, is a prospect which, after all, has a certain melancholy about it; and I have always felt that the classical and the christian feeling must have

66

[TWOPENCE.

been conflicting in Wordsworth, when he spoke of

"The melancholy grace

Brought from a pensive though a happy place," Where the past should be

"Unsighed for and the future sure" At all events, this looking before and after is one of the characteristics of man in this world, perhaps indeed the highest.

With us here, half-formed men, perhaps the present "coarser pleasures" and "glad animal movements" have too much weight; and if we do soar above them, it is rather in the direction of the future than of the past. If so, we should welcome all that has a tendency to correct this; there is much of this, even here, essentially involved in a classical, and what has been the pre-eminent glory of Rugby, an historical, education. But passing these weightier matters by, I would just mention, what surely should more than reconcile us to the want of Easter holidays, the appearance of old Rugbæans amongst us. It is indeed, I would hope, a mutual pleasure, though their share must be sometimes mingled with pain ; but to us it is of the highest advantage; fellows who have been here a year or two, when they see the heroes of bye-gone times coming back to, and renewing their interest in their old haunts, get rid, or ought to get rid, of the notion that this place is merely an inn, as it were, which they are destined to pass a certain time in, and then leave it without the slightest interest for the place itself, or the fellow-travellers in life's journey whom they met there.

It has been said before, in this Journal, that Rugby is not in a condition to rest upon the laurels of the past; but that does not conflict with what I mean. Other great schools are, as it were, the inhabitants of an old city, surrounded by the memories, and the monuments of former glory: we are rather the living builders of a new city, carrying on, or at least bound to carry on, the work that was begun by the old Rugbæans. What was this work? Was it not to help in the true progress of our

age, by leavening it with the spirit of earnestness, and the feeling of being pledged to labour and toil, to the doing of some work in this world? Was not this the work which the real founder of our school began; and which credit was given to Rugbæans for carrying out at the University? I may seem to have rambled from my subject; but I was saying that we should encourage more the retrospective amongst us; because if (I fear it is more than a mere if) the work has ceased of late years for want of builders, the looking back to those whom it is merely in respect (alas!) of time that we have left behind, may shame us into seizing the bricks and trowel, and setting to. "But the architect is gone; so is he of Cologne Cathedral, which, however, has been, may, and will be, carried on without him, for he has left his plan behind. Let us not then listen to the Carlylists in this point at least, nor waste our time in hunting out "The Great Man" to direct us. Let us welcome him when he comes. But the man with 10s. a week is richer than the searcher for the Philosopher's Stone. As for each one of us saying, "What's the good of my doing any thing if no one else will; I am no good by myself," let us be thankful that this is a sentiment not re-echoed by the little rills that somehow manage to swell the rivers, and by the grains of sand, that have swallowed up great armies.

JOHN

HIPPESLEY.
CHAPTER IV.

I had not been very long at my uncle's before it was discovered that I had better go to school. To school I accordingly went. The school which was chosen for me was a happy exception to the general rule of schools. in those days, when even high charges and the title of "Dr." before the master's name did not ensure good teaching, or good feeding either. Dr. Nimrod (for by that name, if you please, my old pedagogue shall be called) was rector of a little parish not far from Brighton, which was at the time I knew it only just springing into celebrity, and the freshly erected pavilion had a clear view down to the sea, and was indeed the glory and wonder of the not yet king-sated natives.

Dr. Nimrod himself was a broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, heavy-armed man, of about fiveand-forty at the time I was first introduced to him by my uncle, and left with the assurance that I should be very happy there; of which event my uncle, I think, must have had some doubts, as he mentioned it several times with great earnestness of manner. Dr. Nimrod was a great patron and favourite of the East Sussex harriers, and woe betide the little mortal who delayed the lesson on the morning when the Doctor was anxious to get through work and breakfast and be off to the hounds. On these mornings we used to say lessons to him in his dressing room, while he was girding his brawny limbs with those knowingly-clerical garments. Most anxious were we too to know the result of the day's sport; and how we loved to gather round the manly genial old fellow, and ask him questions and listen to his stories in the evenings: for he always found we were looking over-worked and in want of a half-holiday after he had had a good run in the morning. Some of the bigger fellows used to say he wasn't a good scholar; and I know when one of the cuter of them, Sharp, repeatedly went up to ask him to explain difficult passages, he always used to go out of the room, perhaps to consult a cab, perhaps not, and would then come back with a fluent, manyworded paraphrase, rather than a literal translation; and at last the Doctor seemed to be so fully persuaded that the fellow was hoaxing him, that he found it necessary to put a stop to it for the future, and tell him that "if he ever came and troubled him with those bits again, he'd flog him.”

I had no great friend there; the nearest approach to one was a fellow some two years older than myself, who cared more for me, I believe, than for anybody else, excepting always himself and cricket. Cricket, by the bye, in those days, had not been reduced to one of the exact sciences, and it was possible for an active fellow, with a good eye and a stout arm, to go in and make a good many runs without having any accurately developed theory as to what he was to do with a 66 short-pitched ball to the leg," or a "far-pitched ball to the middle," and Jehu Smiter, the great glory and head of our eleven, the Jehu Smiter who made