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by the neighbourhood of the scenes he so charmingly | of America more than five times as broad as from Dover delineates, I was surprised and grieved to peruse his elaborate attack on classical learning as the chief object of education at our great English schools, and on the studies of the university which follows it. The pretty exhibition of a school at the scene of the 'Serpent's Bath,' a name of odious fascination, seems to have awakened in his accomplished mind an admiration for the Nassau system, at the expense of our own, which I lamented in proportion to my respect for our accuser. I was the less prepared for his enthusiasm of invective, because in an carlier part of his work he had expatiated with pride, so graceful in his assumed character of an old man, on the symbols of moral and intellectual nobleness presented in the appearance of a party of young English Collegians, specimens of the operation of the system which he deprecates, in comparison with that of their fellow-voyagers, who have been fashioned under that which he prefers. Indeed, after having inveighed against the whole tenor of classical scholastic education, he admits, that in spite of all its disadvantages, a set of high-minded, noble-spirited young men, eventually become an honour to their country.' But asserts, that 'this is no proof that their early education had not done all in its power to prevent them.' I do not understand what other proof can be required or given, or why, while the fact exists, any apprehension should be entertained of the advance of other classes of society in branches of knowledge now within their sphere of opportunity, and the scope of their actual use. If, indeed, classical instruction taught no more than an intimate acquaintance with the dead languages, and a fine perception of the beauties of the greatest works of ancient genius, surely such results could not follow the devotion of a large portion of studious boyhood to its labours. It is not for these accomplishments chiefly, that it is selected for the first place in education; it is because experience has shown it to afford the best means of training the young mind to patient, continuous, unruffled habits of toil; because the study of words, especially of exquisite words, is the best introduction to the knowledge of things; because it does not in the first instance apply to the faculty of unripe reason, which is better developed and strengthened, when it can be exercised on knowledge already mastered, than when incited to try its unfledged energies amidst worlds not realized,' but to strengthen the memory, to refine the taste, and to form the habit of cheerful and obedient toil. It is because the knowledge it communicates is not what is called 'useful,' because it does not supply the scholar with some information at once to be brought into productive exercise, of which he may be 'justly vain,' and with which he may rest contented, that it is wisely presented as a succession of difficulties to be surmounted by years of study, though cheered on the way by glimpses of the beautiful and sublime, disturbed by no controversial strifes, but giving to the labours of boyhood a harmony and a substance, and teaching at the same time that there are higher and nobler things in life to be cherished than those which tend to its outward convenience and enrichment; nay,

to Calais; and with respect to the Ilissus, which had received in my mind such distorted importance, I will only say, that I have repeatedly walked across it in about twenty seconds without wetting my ancles1 Surely our accomplished author recognises a strange scale by which to estimate the value of a knowledge of rivers in the opening or matured mind! While he probably owes much, however unconsciously, of that graceful spirit which bubbles up in his style as sparklingly as the fountains he celebrates, to his researches bordering on the Ilissus, it is difficult to sympathize with his distress in not having learned the names of all the American rivers. Of what earthly use would it be to any English gentleman to know them all as familiarly as Mrs. Malaprop her parts of speech? If he visits a river in America, the name of which he happens not to know, he will learn it in a minute from the first backwoodsman who will honour him with a civil answer; and if he stays at home, what interest has he in the name of a river he will never see, though it should be five times as broad as the sea between Dover and Calais, and should lose in its breadth all the attri butes which give to rivers a place in our recollection or fancy? It would be a vast addition to his knowledge to know all the names of all the inhabitants of London and Westminster, with the numbers of their houses, as authentically collected and alphabetically arranged in the Post Office Directory-information likely to be far more convenient than the recollection of all the names of all the rivers in the new world. But would it be wise, therefore, to fill the memory with such a nomenclature rather than with the names of the heroes of the Trojan war, which are indexes to heroic deeds? To know that there are rivers in America one hundred miles in breadth may be well for one whose imagination has power to embrace such a waste of water; but beyond that "great fact" what blessing does a nominal acquaintance confer, unless the names are themselves pictures, as Abana and Pharpar lucid streams? If the value of an unseen river to the mind depends on its breadth, Sir Francis Head would prefer by tenthousand-fold the St. Lawrence to the Jordans which he might have passed with as dry, though not so contemptuous a foot as the Ilissus; and he may strike the balance of the interest, according to gallons of water, between the muddy flood of the Mississippi and 'Siloa's brook, that flowed fast by the oracle of God.'”

that there are things compared to which life itself, with all its utilities, is worthless. Our English classic (for such unquestionably the author is), laments his own lot, as having left a classical school at the age of fourteen, 'scarcely knowing the name of a single river in the new world, tired almost to death of the history of the Ilissus. In after life (he continues) I entered a river

(1) "As we proceeded up the Rhine there issued from one of the old romantic castles we were passing, a party of young English lads, whose appearance (as soon as they came on board) did ample justice to their country, and comparing them while they walked the deck with the rest of their fellow-prisoners, I could not help fancying that I saw a determination in their step, a latent character in their attitudes, and a vigour in their young frames, which being interpreted, said

We dare do all that may become a man,
Who dares do more is none."

A CHURCH ANTIQUARIAN.

BROWNE WILLIS, the first person who undertook a detailed and general survey of the English Cathedrals, acquired his love for this pursuit by passing many of his idle hours in the Abbey when a Westminster boy. That Abbey was open to the boys till of late years, when they were deprived of a liberty which produced some injury to the monuments, and some annoyance to the visitors and showmen. Browne Willis, who became one of the oddest of old men, had his share of peculiarities as a boy. The monuments were his books, and before he left school he imbibed there a love of churches and church antiquities, which fixed the bent of his after life; he was a great repairer of churches and steeples, attended cathedrals and churches, whenever he could so time his visits, upon their dedication days; and when he went to Bath, would lodge nowhere but in the Abbey-house. A lively lady described him as having, with one of the honestest hearts in the world, one of the oddest heads that ever dropped from the moon. He wrote the worst hand of any man in England, it was more unintelligible than if he had learned to write by copying the inscriptions upon old tomb-stones; he wore three or four coats at once, each being of a different generation, and over

SHARPE'S LONDON MAGAZINE.

them an old blue cloak lined with fustian, all of which were girt with a leathern belt, giving him the appearance of a beggar, for which he was often taken in the course of his enthusiastic wanderings. His weather-beaten wig was of a colour for which language affords no name; his slouched hat, having past the stage between black and brown, was in the same predicament as the wig, and the lower parts of his equipment had obtained for him in his own neighbourhood, the appellation of Old Wrinkle Boots, for during the wear and tear and repair of forty years, the said boots had contracted as many wrinkles as their quantum of calf-skin would contain, and consequently did not reach half way up the legs which they once covered. Being far too deeply engaged with past ages to bestow any portion of his thoughts and cares upon the present, he suffered a fair fortune to be deteriorated by neglecting his worldly affairs; and having lived long enough to hold a distinguished place among antiquities himself, he left behind him the character of a diligent and faithful antiquary, in which Reputations he will long continue to be remembered. of this class are not like those of fashionable authors, who "come like shadows and so depart" they keep

their place and make up in duration for what they want in extensiveness.—Quarterly Review.

A LOST CHILD.

A FEW years ago, in the parish of Sydney, in the province of New Brunswick, America, the following

circumstance occurred :

A young gentleman who had been out for some days on a hunting or shooting expedition, reached the banks of Bear Creek, which he was desirous of crossing, being anxious to make his way home before night-fall. To his disappointment, the logbridge which he had passed the day before had been carried away by the current, which happened to be very strong in that place. Remembering, however, having noticed a fallen tree across the stream lower down, he pursued his way. Just as he had reached the spot, and was preparing to cross over, his ear was attracted by the sound of footsteps upon the dry sticks; the sound was accompanied by a cautious rustling movement among the thicket of wild raspberries that covered the opposite space. With the alertness of a sportsman, anticipating a shot at a deer or bear, his finger rapidly found its way to the lock of his rifle; and while his keen eye was warily fixed on the bushes, a slight attenuated hand, stained purple with the juice of the berries, was quietly raised to reach down a loaded branch of fruit; another instant, and the fatal ball had been lodged in the heart of the unconscious victim. A cry of terror and of thankfulness burst from the lips of the hunter as he sprang with eager haste across the stream and approached the child. It was a little girl, apparently not more than eight years old: her torn garments, soiled hands, dishevelled locks, and haggard face, betrayed the fact that she had strayed from the forest path, and been lost in the trackless wilderness. The child appeared overjoyed at the sight of the stranger, and told her artless tale with a clearness and simplicity that drew tears from the eyes of her preserver, who felt, indeed, as if he had been an instrument in the Divine hand, sent to rescue the forlorn being before him from a melancholy and painful death. Had not the loss of the bridge led him to seek another spot whereby to gain the opposite bank, she would in all probability have perished in that lonely spot;

He but it was ordered otherwise, and the heart of the young man was filled with grateful emotion. learned from the child that she had been sent by her mother to carry a basket of food to her father, who was chopping in the wood near the house; but that, by some mischance, she had strayed from the path, and, misled by the echo of her father's tion. Every attempt to retrace her steps only led axe, she had wandered away in an opposite direcher deeper and deeper into the wood; but still she At first, she said, she cried a great deal; went on. but finding her tears and lamentations brought no relief, she consoled herself with eating some of the food she had brought with her. When night came on, she was overcome with weariness, and lay down to sleep in a sheltered place, and rose with the first sound of the birds to pursue her hopeless way. When she had exhausted her provisions in the basket, she beguiled her sorrows by seeking for herbs and berries. Fortunately it was the season of summer fruits, or else the poor wanderer must have perished. On the third night she lay down to sleep, and heard, as she supposed, the tread of cattle near her. She said she was very glad, for she thought the dark creatures she saw moving about in the dim light must be her father's oxen; and she called to them very often, "Buck, Bright!" she did not hear the ox-bell. Another night she but they did not come nearer; and she wondered said she saw two great black shaggy dogs, which she thought were neighbour Hewet's dogs; but when she called them by their names, they stood up on their hind legs, and looked hard at her, but did not come near her, and soon went away into the wood: and she knew they were dogs, for that night she heard them howling. In all probability these animals were bears, for the woods abounded with those animals, and the stream the hunter had crossed bore the name of Bear Creek; the howling, most probably, arose from wolves; but her innocent heart knew no fear. The day after this she found herself near a deserted shanty; the clearing on which it stood was overgrown with strawberries and raspberry-bushes; and here she remained, picking the berries, and sleeping beneath its sheltering roof at night. She led the hunter to her solitary hut, where he proposed leaving her whilst he went in search of help to convey her home, or to some dwelling house; but the little creature clung to him with passionate weeping, and implored him so pathetically not to leave her again alone in the dark lonely forest, that his heart was not proof against her entreaties; and, though weary with his own wandering, he took the little foundling on his back and proceeded on his journey, occasionally resting on the fallen timbers to ease him of his burden. The shades of night were closing in fast upon them; and the weary pair were making up their minds to pass another night under the shade their ears; and of the woods, when the sound of water and the working of mill-wheels broke upon soon the light of the last glow of sunset broke through the trees in the distance; and the child, with a shout of joy, proclaimed they must be near

a

clearing at last, for she saw light through the stems of the trees. Gladly did the poor wayworn travellers hail the cheerful sight of the mill and the neat log-house beside it; and gladly did the kind inmates of the place receive and cherish the poor lost child, who had been sought for till hope had departed from the hearts of her sorrowing friends,

and she was reckoned among the dead. She had wandered away miles from her home, and been absent many days; but she had been supplied with water and fruits, and her spirits had been wonderfully sustained during her wanderings.

Poetry.

In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author, is printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is printed in Italics at the end.

AN EPITAPH

IN THE CHURCH OF ROMFORD, ESSEX, ON THE DEATH OF
THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL SIR ANTHONY COOK, KNIGHT,
WHO DIED THE 11TH DAY OF JUNE, 1576.

You learned men and syche as learning love
Vouchsafe to reade this rude unlearned verse
For stones are doombe and yet for mannes behove
God lends them tongues somtymes for to rehearse
Sych wordes of worth as worthiest wits may pearce
Yea stones (oftymes) when bloode and bones be rott
Do blase the brute which else might be forgott
And in that heape of carved stones doth lye
A worthy knight whose life in learninge ledd
Did make his name to mounte above the skic
With sacred skill unto a kinge he redd

Whose towarde youthe his famouse praises spredde
And he (therefore) to courtly lyfe was called
Who more desired in study to be stalled
Philosophy had taught his learned mynde
To stand content with countrye quyet lyfe
Wherein he dwelt as one that was assyned
To garde the same from sundry stormes of stryfe
And (but when persecuting rage was ryfe)
His helping hand did never fayle to stay
His countryes staffe but held yet up alway
No high advance nor office of availe

Could tempte his thoughte to soare beyond his reache
By bronte of books hee only did assayle

The forte of fame wherto hee made his breache

ANECDOTE OF SIR HENRY FANSHAWE.

LADY FANSHAWE relates to her son the following anecdote of his grandfather Sir Henry Fanshawe, who lived in Queen Elizabeth's reign.

He had great honour and generosity in his nature, and to show you a little part of which, I will tell you this of him. He had a horse that the then Earl of Exeter was much pleased with, and Sir Henry esteemed, because he deserved it. My Lord, after some apology, desired Sir Henry to let him have his horse, and he would give him what he would; he replied,

66

my lord, I have no thought of selling him, but to serve you; I bought him of such a person, and gave so much for him, and that shall be the price to you, as I paid, being sixty pieces;" my Lord Exeter said, "that's too much, but I will give you, Sir Henry, fifty;" to which he made no answer. Next day, my lord sent a gentleman with sixty pieces, Sir Henry made answer, "that was the price he paid, and once had offered him to my lord at, but not being accepted, his price now was eighty;" at the receiving of this answer, my Lord Exeter stormed, and sent his servant back with seventy pieces. Sir Henry

With tyre of truthe, which God's good worde dothe teache said, "that since my lord would not take him at eighty

The wealth he won was due to his degree
He neyther rose by riche rewarde nor fee
And yet althoughe he bare his sayles so lowe
That in his lyfe he did right well bestowe
His children all before their pryme was paste
And linckte them so as they be like to laste
What shoulde I say but only this in summe
Beatus sic qui timet Dominum

That only skill that learninge bears the bell
And of that skill I thoughte (poore stoone) to tell
That syche as like to use their learninge well
Might reade these lynes and herewith oft repeate
How here on earth his gyft from God is greate
Which can employe his learninge to the best

Soe did this knighte which here with me doth reste.

"WHERE SHALL I TURN TO FORGET, AND BE AT PEACE?"

A. II. T.

Он woman, when thy golden youth is gone,-
Swiftly hath died away,

As light from the sweet day,

How shalt thou meet the night which cometh on?

When none shall heed thy voice-no earthly friend
Shall whisper in thine ear,

Words thou wouldst die to hear

"I love thee still the same, until the end ;"-
Where shalt thou turn from the remembered past,
Through the dark years to come ?-
The heart must have a home,
Something whereon to lean, even to the last.

pieces, he would not sell him under a hundred pieces, and if he returned with less he would not sell him at all;" upon which my Lord Exeter sent one hundred pieces and had the horse.

LORD ERSKINE'S FONDNESS FOR PUNNING.

In this forbidden ground, the region of puns, wit's lowest story, Erskine would disport himself with more than boyish glee. He fired off a double-barrel when encountering his friend, Mr. Maylem, at Ramsgate. The latter observed that his physician had ordered him not to bathe. "Oh then," said Erskine, "you are Malum prohibitum."" "My wife, however," resumed the other, "does bathe." "Oh, then," said Erskine, perfectly delighted, "she is 'Malum in se."—(Townsend's Lives of eminent Judges.)

No. 65.]

London Magazine:

A JOURNAL OF ENTERTAINMENT AND INSTRUCTION
FOR GENERAL READING.

Bora.

(See page 207.)

splendid action she has, to be sure, and giving tongue all the time too. She's in first-rate training, 'pon my word; I thought she'd have sewn me up at one time-the pace was terrific. I must walk into old Coleman's champagne before I make a fresh start; when I've recovered my wind, and had a mouthful of hay and water, I'll have at her again, and dance till all's blue before I give in."

"My dear fellow," said I, "you must not dance all the evening with the same young lady; you'll have her brother call upon you the first thing to-morrow morning to know your intentions."

"He shall very soon learn them, as far as he is concerned, then," replied Lawless, doubling his fist. "Let me have him to myself for a quiet twenty minutes, and

| of the wax candles, which had not been extinguished in its fall, had rolled against the ball-dress of Miss Saville, who happened to be seated next the table, and set it on fire. After making an ineffectual attempt to put it out with her hands, she became alarmed, and as I approached, started wildly up, with the evident intention of rushing out of the room. Without a moment's hesitation, 1 sprang forward, caught her in my arms, and flinging the worsted shawl over her dress, which was just beginning to blaze, enveloped her in it, and telling her if she only remained quiet she would be perfectly safe, laid her on the floor, while I continued to hold the thick shawl tightly down, till, to my very great delight, I succeeded in extinguishing the flames.

"Not exactly," replied I, turning away with a smile. When Lawless made his appearance after supper, it was evident by his flushed face, and a slight unsteadiness in his manner of walking, that he had carried his intentions with regard to the champagne into effect; and, heedless of my warning, he proceeded to lay violent siege to Miss Clapperton, to induce her to waltz with him. I was watching them with some little amusement, for the struggle in the young lady's mind between her sense of the proper, and her desire to waltz with an Honourable, was very apparent, when I was requested by Mrs. Coleman to go in search of a cloak appertaining to the turbaned old lady, whom I had escorted down to supper, and who, being delicate in some way or other, required especial care in packing up. Owing to a trifling mistake of Mrs. Coleman's, (who had described a red worsted shawl as a blue cloth cloak, which mistake I had to discover and rectify,) my mission detained me some minutes. As I re-entered the ball-room, shawl in hand, I was startled by the crash of something heavy falling, followed by a shriek from several of the ladies at the upper end of the room; and on hastening to the scene of action, I soon perceived the cause of their alarm. During my absence, Lawless, having succeeded in overcoming Miss Clapperton's scruples, had re-commenced waltzing with the greatest energy; but unfortunately, after going round the room once or twice," the pace," as he called it, becoming faster at every turn, the combined effects of the champagne and the unaccustomed exercise rendered him exceedingly giddy, and just before I entered the room, he had fallen against a small table supporting a handsome China candelabrum, containing several wax lights, the overthrow of which had occasioned the grand crash I had heard. The cause of the shriek, however, still remained to be discovered, and a nearer approach instantly rendered it apparent. One