A CARTHUSIAN LEGEND. [WE had long wished that before we closed the pages of the Carthusian we might be enabled to present to our readers a contribution from the elder department of our venerable establishment. We are happy now at the last hour in the accomplishment of our wish. Few of us but can recognize in these verses the production of the octogenarian philo-cricketist, whose wild black eyes sparkling from under his grey shaggy eyebrows at the sight of a "Terracer," half charmed, half frightened our youthful imaginations. In vain we now seek him in his accustomed place. Since the last cricket-season the chapel bell has rung out his heavy dirge, and followed by his tottering brethren he has been carried to his nameless grave: Requiescat in pace. HONOURED GENTLEMEN, EDS.] I received the following lines from an old brother pensioner, lately deceased. There is a wildness about them which shows that the writer laboured under some strong excitement or agitation. As he was strictly temperate, I feel inclined to attribute the effusion to indigestion. He had been in his youth the hero of his village at bowling and batting, and when in his latter days he became a member of our Brotherhood, he loved to post himself in the Cloisters, secure from any stray hit, and watch the fortunes of the game with the eye of a practised cricketer. Sleep no doubt overtook him while thus engaged, and Fancy asserted her accustomed privilege of trampling upon probabilities and of giving "to airy nothings A local habitation and a name." That he partially believed in the reality of what he wrote about, is evident from the confusion of ideas in the concluding lines. He is now dead, and I have therefore no scruple in offering his verses for your acceptance, as many old Carthusians were very fond of conversing with him, especially about his belief in ghosts. I remain, honoured Gentlemen, Your humble servant, I lay me down to sleep BROTHER TRENCHER. And dreamt in Middle Briers, Of monks of olden time And gray Carthusian friars; And I looked upon the green, How changed the well-known scene! Instead of laughing groups Of boys around each wicket, Played a fearful game of cricket; Was the long white robe and cowl, And each hoary head it glistened That rises up hard by ; And a little azure angel Stood umpire at the game, And wings of heavenly flame. The devils they were in, The monks were fagging out, And Lucifer, the chief of all, How he knocked the ball about! How he laughed to see the weary friars Running hard and fast Beneath the burning sunbeams And the fell sulphuric blast! And louder still he laughed When at length he got a run, And again my eyes were opened, In fear of deadly doom. And I saw the swollen bodies In the cerements of the dead- On the green putrid mass Within the roomy grave, And blessed the blessed plague Which that feast of dainties gave! But the prior boldly stood, That man of holy deeds,— Looked down with partial eye Before the demon's eyes, That were dazzled by the sight. With heavenly hope inspired, The prior seized the ball, Struck off the balanced bales Of anguish and despair From that band of baffled fiends The dreadful conflict o'er, The weary struggle past; And I woke and found that all had passed Yet now whene'er I walk along The sad funereal hill, I think upon the souls that lie In dreadful durance still. And no man who has ever been, Or ever yet shall be, Has dreamt the dream that I then dreamt, Or seen that I did see. A SONNET ON SONNETS. Not much I love the fourteen-lined effusion Which now with chiefest joy Sir Public hails : E'en to this point he strains it :-then upon it THE TRIUMVIRATE. HARRY MOUBRAY has departed. The charm of our club, the master-spirit of our mysteries, the grand-tiler of our masonry is no more! Our Sir Roger de Coverley has fled, and with him the light has vanished from our pages: our numbers would now wax heavy and dull. Well, a boy's blessing be with him! We will lay no ponderous slab-stone on his remains, we will raise no cold and marble effigy, nor shall any posthumous numbers drag out the needless Alexandrine of his epitaph. Si monumentum quæris, circumspice. It shall not be said that he left the edifice in marble, and that we continued it in brick. With him our work began; with him shall it finish. The Parthenon of his imagination shall remain |