ble to be stunted downwards by your associates. The trumpet does not more stun you by its loudness, than a whisper teazes you by its provoking inaudibility. ours. Why are we never quite at our ease in the presence of a schoolmaster?-because we are conscious that he is not quite at his ease in He is awkward, and out of place, in the society of his equals. He comes like Gulliver from among his little people, and he cannot fit the stature of his understanding to yours. He cannot meet you on the square. He wants a point given him, like an indifferent whist-player. He is so used to teaching, that he wants to be teaching you. One of these professors, upon my complaining that these little sketches of mine were any thing but methodical, and that I was unable to make them otherwise, kindly offered to instruct me in the method, by which young gentlemen in his seminary were taught to compose English themes. -The jests of a schoolmaster are eoarse, or thin. They do not tell out of school. He is under the restraint of a formal and didactive hypocrisy in company, as a clergyman is under a moral one. He can no more let his intellect loose in society, than the other can his inclinations. -He is forlorn among his co-evals; kis juniors cannot be his friends. I take blame to myself," said a sensible man of this profession, writing to a friend respecting a youth who had quitted his school abruptly, "that your nephew was not more attached to me. But persons in my situation are more to be pitied, than can well be imagined. We are surrounded by young, and, consequently, ardently affectionate hearts, but we can never hope to share an atom of their affections. The relation of master and scholar forbids this. How pleasing this must be to you, how I envy your feelings, my friends will sometimes say to me, when they see young men, whom I have educated, return after some years absence from school, their eyes shining with pleasure, while they shake hands with their old master, bringing a present of game to me, or a toy to my wife; and thanking me in the warmest terms for my care of their education. A holyday is begged for the boys; the house is a scene of happiness; I, only, am sad at heart. This finespirited and warm-hearted youth, who fancies he repays his master with gratitude for the care of his boyish years-this young man-in the eight long years I watched over him with a parent's anxiety, never could repay me with one look of genuine feeling. He was proud, when I praised; he was submissive, when I reproved him; but he did never love me-and what he now mistakes for gratitude and kindness for me, is but the pleasant sensation, which all persons feel at revisiting the scene of their boyish hopes and fears; and the seeing on equal terms the man they were accustomed to look up to with reverence." ( "My wife too," this interesting correspondent goes on to say, "my once darling Anna, is the wife of a schoolmaster.When I courted her, when I married her-knowing that the wife of a schoolmaster ought to be a busy notable creature, and fearing that my gentle Anna would ill supply the loss of my dear bustling mother, just then dead, who never sat still, was in every part of the house in a moment, and whom I was obliged sometimes to threaten to fasten down in a chair, to save her from fatiguing herself to deathwhen I expressed my fears, that I was bringing her into a way of life unsuitable to her, she, who loved me tenderly, promised for my sake to exert herself to perform the duties of her new situation. She promised, and she has kept her word. What wonders will not a woman's love perform? My house is managed with a propriety and decorum, unknown in other schools; my boys are well fed, look healthy, and have every proper accommodation; and all this performed with a careful economy, that never descends to meanness. But I have lost my gentle, helpless Anna!-When we sit down to enjoy an hour of repose after the fatigue of the day, I am compelled to listen to what have been her useful (and they are really useful) employments through the day, and what she proposes for her tomorrow's task. Her heart and her features are changed by the duties of her situation. To the boys, she never appears other than the master's wife; and she looks up to me, as to the boys' master, to whom all show of fond affection would be highly improper, and unbecoming the dignity of her situation and mine. Yet this -gratitude forbids me to hint to her. For my sake she submitted to be this altered creature, and can I re proach her for it? These kind of complaints are not often drawn from me. I am aware that I am a fortunate, I mean, a prosperous man scribing any farther. For the comMy feelings prevent me from tranmunication of this letter I am indebted to my cousin Bridget. ELIA. VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG FRIEND. No need there is, in hymning thee, A tender strain of gentle sorrow: Should cloud the poet's mind who sings thee;— As Memory now thy image brings, me. "Tis true that DEATH,-e'en death like thine Those clouds the more enhance its splendour: Young-guileless-gentle and beloved When thou art named, still cling unto thee! But pensive looks, and softest sighs, Tell how we loved-and for thee languish ! For me, I own, though months had past, For thought, and feeling,-breathing pauses. And they were spent,-not in the din Of crowded streets;-their still lapse found us With fields, and flowers, and sunshine round us. Hence, when I think of thee, I seem Though HE-whose will is love supreme- I look on thee as one, who, born In scenes where peace and virtue blossom ;- And now sleep'st calmly in their bosom ! B. B. TO MARY. It is not alone while we live in the light That its beam so true, and so tenderly bright, But that ray shines on through a night of tears, Nor is it while yet on the listening ear The accents of Friendship steal, That we know the extent of the joy, so dear, 'Tis in after moments of sorrow and pain, Though years have roll'd by, dear Mary! since we Yet thy memory is fondly cherish'd by me, The traveller who journeys the live-long day Should he, when the mists of evening are grey, O! will he not stop, and look back to review Some steps,-since we parted last, On the few bright spots I have pass'd:- I know not how soon dark clouds may shade Or how quickly its happiest haunts may fade But 'till quench'd is the lustre of life's setting sun, SONNET. "Tis not the sun with all his heavenly light, Nor change of place,-nor Time's revolving years,~~ Nor birds' soft notes ;-No! nor returning Spring, Persons..... EMILY, A DRAMATIC SKETCH. Lord Mowbray. Amelia, his daughter. Maurice, Amelia's husband. William, a Boy of six years old, the son of Maurice and Amelia. Scene, the inside of a Cottage. Amelia at work singing, Maurice enters during her Song. The red rose is queen of the garden bower That glows in the sun at noon; And the lady lily 's the fairest flower Whose white bells swing in the breeze of June; But they, who come 'mid frost and flood, Peeping from hedge or root of tree, The primrose and the violet bud, They are the dearest flowers to me. The nightingale's is the sweetest song That ever the rose has heard; And when the lark chaunts yon clouds among The lily looks up to the heavenly bird; But the robin with his eye of jet, Who pipes from the bare boughs merrily To the primrose pale and the violet, He is the dearest bird to me. Am. Ah, art thou there? I thought I was alone. Hast thou been long returned? Mau. Even now. I'm glad ; Am. But maiden love Mau. That flutters tremulously in thy fair cheek But thou wast pale, Stooping so long o'er that embroidery, That irksome toil. Go forth into the air. Am. Not yet; there still is light enough to work, I have one flower to finish. Then I'll fly To the sweet joys of busy idleness, To our sweet garden; I am wanted there, So William says; the freshening showers to-day And foolish lover-husband I have got! Mau. Only just enough. Of such repose as this, here at thy feet Am. Even as that sweet and melancholy princé, Hamlet the Dane, lay at Ophelia's feet His lady-love. Wast thou not thinking so? Am. Mau. Banterer! Where is William ? [Sings. But they who come 'mid frost and flood, They are the dearest flowers to me. Our William: If far off within the wood Am. Mau. Guess. Nay, tell me, love. Am. To-day at noon, returning from the farm, Of leaves and blushing fruit, and he is gone Mau. Prythee, love, say on. This is a tale which I could listen to The live-long day. Am. And will it not be sweet To see that lovely boy, blushing all over, His fair brow reddening, and his smiling eyes |