knows how many yards of printed calico rolled round her body next the skin. The passing a custom-house is at best a humiliating position; and I know not whether the insolence of a dog in office, or the sense of obligation for unexpected lenity, is most disagreeable. The foresight of our females in providing themselves with English dresses was on this occasion' rather unfortunate. The King of France is not Mr. Huskisson; and his Continental system is scarcely less hostile to English spinningjennies than that of Napoleon himself. It was some consolation, indeed, on arriving in the capital, to find that the forfeited goods would have been unwearable from the uncouthness of their fashion ; but then the devil of it was, on our return to Dover, we discovered that our French purchases, thus necessitated, were all to be redeemed by an ad valorem duty, fully equal to the worth of the articles. I should like to know what all this means. Is it requisite for the interests of commerce that his Majesty's lieges should travel in a state of nudity? Is this the hospitality due to strangers who are fools enough to spend their money with your hotel-keepers and your post-masters? As if these annoyances were not sufficient in themselves, they were doubled and tripled, on our return, by the eager anxiety of our party to buy whatever they saw in the shops of Paris. Books, pictures, old china, sweetmeats, ormolu, and buhle clocks, silks, satins, all sorts of customary and contraband articles were packed higglety-pigglety together, so that it would have been easier to clear out an entire Indiaman than any one of our numerous packages. God knows how much was seized, and how much expended in duty and in fees to the subaltern officers to purchase a lenity which they did not show; and then, to complete our mortification, we found, the day after our arrival, that all these inutilities were to be had infinitely cheaper and better in the shops of Regent-street and Bond-street, than we had obtained them with so much personal annoyance. But methinks I hear the reader exclaim, “ Have you so little to do with your time, that you know not how to employ it but in this idle scribble and debate ?”* Grief is eloquent, not to say tedious; and I find that I have exhausted my paper before I have well begun my subject. This is a calamity into which even book-makers sometimes fall; it may therefore well be pardoned in the writer of a mere essay; at all events, pardoned or not, I have nothing left for it now but to conclude, as a skilful diplomatist does when he has nothing more to say, with—"the rest by the next courier.”


*“ En vostre monde avez vous si grande superfluité de temps que ne sçavez en quoy l'employer fors ainsi parler, disputer et imprudentement escripre.”-Rabelais. * Tutor at present to Mr. Wellesley's sons. * The late Hon. Admiral Cornwallis.


A Portrait. In the old grey court on the right of the master's lodge, not far from the rooms occupied by Ebden, * that merriest, though not the mildest of tutors, lived, in the year 181-, W- , of Trinity Hall. He was a short, fat, thick-set man, with a round red face, fond of grog, but very averse to Greek—a naval gentleman disguised in academicals; and as he rolled along Trumpington-street, in his full, flowing, fellow-commoner's gown, with the same step and stagger with which he would have paced his own quarter-deck, was a spectacle which has been known to relax the iron muscles even of Professor Scholefield himself.

But if his appearance was droll, much more were his demeanour and dialogue. He had served many years in the navy; and having (to use his own expressions) " thrice fought a ship, was now about to work a church! No chance of promotion now our best friend is deposed! My father will have a vacant living very shortly; and I," he sighed deeply, “ must fill it! So," thus he concluded, to the utter amazement of the resident fellow, “ I've brought myself up in smooth water, and here I am, like a young bear, with all my troubles before me.”

Never was there a neophyte more sadly perplexed. When in his cap and gown, he always seemed doubtful of his own identity. Moreover, he was perpetually puzzled between his clerical prospects and his nautical retrospects. “Wind westerly! This day nine years, I was wrecked off Ushant. By the way, have you heard that the Bishop of Peterborough has issued a fresh code of signals-psha !-questions I mean? How on earth I'm to answer !—Mind your weather-helm, Madam!” he exclaimed, as the gigantic Mrs. Battle transfixed him with the point of a huge umbrella. " You should have shortened sail in this squally weather," was his gruff observation, as he with difficulty disengaged bimself from her drapery and apologies.

Etiquette required he should be introduced by the tutor to some man of his own college. Mr. C— C— , one of the "exclusives," was fixed upon. “Ha! I knew something of one of your family,-old Billy Blue.”+ Mr. C. C 's complexion bore considerable affinity to his noble relative's nickname at that particular instant. “Old Billy Blue! Ah! he was not one of your psalm-singing beggars, with his hair as straight as a die. No, no! he knew what was a midshipman's duty, and more he never required. Not like your saintly skippers of modern days, who, while they give their orders, turn up their eyes like a lady in love, and expect impossibilities."

“You should endeavour, Sir," was the sage advice of the professor of civil law, “to give your mind an academical turn while resident in this our university." But in vain. He convulsed the bystanders by the most pertinacious adherence to his professional phraseology. He persisted in maintaining, before a horrified assembly of the “most serious young men,” that Mr. Simeon's action in the pulpit reminded him “of a ship's course working to windward ;” and averred that “ Professor --, while delivering his lectures, resembled a stormy petrel on the look-out for squalls.'

“W ," said the gay Sir Charles , as he rushed into his room one morning, breathless and half-dressed —"W , shut your doors, the bailiffs are after me, and what can I do?"-"Do ? stand out to wind with every stitch you can crack. But stay, have a glass of grog before you start. Easy, easy. Why you bellow like a bunch of boatswains!"

I feel some difficulty in stating whether it was during a college exa mination in Trinity Hall, or a criminal one before the Vice Chancellor, that Mr. W- 's parts shone forth with the greatest brilliancy. The examination papers are generally printed: this year they consisted of Questions on one of the Gospels in the Greek Testament, and on, I think, the Kupov maidata of Xenophon...“ Do you find any difficulty, Mr. W- ?" said the examining fellow, kindly, observing he had been poring over his papers for an hour in evident perplexity "I shall be bappy to give any explanation, or remove any obstacle that,”

" I'm quite at sea, Sir, with my sailing orders,” was W— 's mournful reply. At one, he folded up his papers with his characteristic composure, and placed them in the tutor's hands. Their contents were a simple

"Mem :-May 20th, 181., 1 P.M. Wind westerly-dead calm. Pored for three hours over my printed instructions,-as incomprehensible as Lord Gambier's speeches. Never could understand but one chapter in the New Testament, the twenty-seventh of Acts--that not called for. As to Mr. Cyrus, it's all babble!

R. W.". There had been a trumpery row in the University, which, magnified by malice, was brought under the cognizance of the Vice Chancellor. W— was present; the only individual, in fact, of the party that was sober. His evidence was material, and both parties pressed for it proportionably. “I'll show the old lady a bit of traverse-sailing,” said W— , and he mystified accordingly. “But what was the origin of the fray?—who struck the first blow ?” asked Mr. Vice, and asked in vain.

At length the Vice drew a long breath and began :-"Mr. W- , you were present at the commencement of this dreadful outrage,-you were an eye-witness of the whole of this flagrant proceeding,—now, Mr. W- on your honour," these words were repeated with the most appalling solemnity" on your honour, Mr.W , what was the first thing you saw?"-"Mr. Vice Chancellor," replied W- with an elongated visage, a mock solemnity of utterance, and a pause between each word, that gave the most farcical air to the whole proceeding" There's no working to windward of truth:-the-first-thing-isaw-was-Mr. Fitzosborne canting his ballast.”. .

Yet his stories were to the full as memorable as his sayings. He had an inexhaustible store relative to Lord Collingwood, with whom he had sailed, and his dog Bounce, which he used to detail to the huge delight of a large laughter-loving audience. One I must find room for, the shortest, not the best. A Jemmy Jessamy of a midshipman waited on his Lordship to solicit a lieutenancy. The Admiral, fixing his penetrating eye on him, surveyed him in silence for a minute, and then observed, “ That would be sporting with men's lives indeed! Sir, I would not trust you with a boat in a trout-stream !"

I lost sight of him for some years. At length we met again at Palace, he for institution, I for examination. It was one of our rainy, chilly summers, and the bishop, a thin spare man, whom hard study Oct.-VOL. XXVI. NO. CVI.

2 A

and sedentary habits had evidently enervated, shrank froin the inclemency of the season. “ The morning is cold, the wind must be easterly."

“ No, my Lord, not since this day week,” said W “ It was southerly at six; then veered a point or two to the norrard, and is now due north.”—“ Indeed !” said the Bishop, who was evidently surprised at this lengthy reply, and by no means up to his man. Then addressing his secretary, who waited for his signature, he inquired, “ Is it the first or second of June, Mr. Porteus?"_“ The first, my Lord, the glorious first of June-Howe's victory, my Lord. How I should like to have another lick at those-"The Bishop stared and turned to his secretary, who reflected his Lordship’s look of wonder with one of the most unqualified bewilderment." Hem !-hem !--my Lord, I beg pardon.”



In imitation of the Writers of the Sixteenth Century.

IF Wisdom's tongue could make thee mine,

What maze of learning yet untried,
But through its mystic paths I'd roam,

To clasp my labyrinthian bride ?
If honey'd words from Cupid's book

Might better plead-eftsoones I'd prove,
By dint of such sweet scholarship,

A pedant in the lore of love.
Should witless thoughts and idiot phrase,

Strange chance! thy passion more engage,
Wisdom's and Cupid's leaves I'd burn,

And study Folly's vacant page.
Perchance thou’rt moved by martial deeds ?

Whate'er my skill in chivalrie,
Deep wounds with meek and bashful suit

Shall pay their blushing vows to thee.
Doth costly treasure tempt thine eye?

I'll dig the mine, and as of old
The fabled God woo'd Danaë,

Thy bosom seek in showers of gold.
Can nought that's short of tristfull death

Thy choice and dainty humour feed ?
Then strike! but let the victim kiss

The band that doth the cruel deed.

THE BLACK LADY OF ALTENOTTING. “ Y-a-t-il rien de plus respectable que d'anciens abus ? Oui oui-la raison est encore plus ancienne !"

MONTESQUIEU. The witchery, both personal and spiritual, of the White Lady of Avenel, has occupied so many pens and pencils, and has been hymned in such a variety of languages and orchestras, that it appears a sacrilegious act of negligence to have passed over the sable charms of her divine rival.

With the exception of the shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne, there exists throughout Germany no spot of greater sanctity, no altar of richer endowments, than the Chapel of the Black Lady, on the frontier of Bavaria. The hearts of its sovereign electors have been deposited, from century to century, within the consecrated cells; nor is there an historic event, involving the interests of their own, or the adjacent kingdoms, which is not supposed to have been influenced by her potent interposition. A sufficient history, in fact, of the destinies of the whole empire, might be recorded in a mere catalogue of the national offerings to the shrine of Altenötting.

In rambling through the eastern provinces of Bavaria, some few springs ago, I chanced to arrive one glowing afternoon at the posthouse of an inconsiderable town; which, from the grass-grown tranquillity of its streets, and from a peculiar air of self-oblivion, appeared to be basking fast asleep in the sunshine. There was little to admire in the common-place character of its site, or the narrow meanness of its distribution; yet there was something peculiar in its look of dreamy non-identity; and had it not been for the smiling faces of the fair-haired Bavarian girls, who were to be seen glancing here and there, with their embroidered purple bodices and coifs, and silver-chained stomachers, I could believe myself to have reached some enchanted realm of forgetfulness.

As I entered the Platz, or market-square, of the little town, chiefly with a view to the nearer inspection of the cunning workmanship of the aforesaid carcanets of silver, a slight sprinkling of April rain began to moisten the pavement-one of those unheard, unseen, revivifying showers, which weep the earth into freshness, and the buds into maturity. I was anxious, however, to withdraw my mere human nature from participation in these herbaceous advantages ; and looking about for some shelter which might preserve me from the mischiefs of the shower, without depriving me of its refreshing fragrance, I espied in the centre of the Platz—a square of no mighty area-a low, rotunda-like building, with slated roof, overhanging and resting upon wooden pillars, so as to form a sort of covered walk.

I settled with myself that this was the market-house of the town, and hastened to besiege so desirable a city of refuge. But during my rapid approach, I observed that the external walls of the nameless edifice beneath the arcade were covered, and without a single interstitial interval, by small pictures in oil-colours, equal in size, and equal in demerit, and each and all representing some calamitous crisis of human existence-a fire, a ship-wreck, a boat-wreck, a battle, a leprosy! It occurred to me at the same moment, that this gallery of mortal casu

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