IF you stand in need of a clever contributor, one that shall set all the town upon buying your paper, my son Jack is your man. He left Cambridge University only three months ago, where I placed him as per advice of Parson Dixon, the head master of the grammar school where the boy got his rudimentals in learning. It cost me a mint of money over and above the school allowance for scholarship to support him at College, and now all is done, to tell you the truth, I don't see what he is the better for it, unless he can find a market for his talents in your Magnet. Sir, I have given him possession of the best room in my house for a study, in hopes that he would write some learned book, and publish it, so as to make his fortune at once, and bring honour upon his name (and mine) for ever. But no such good luck seems likely to visit us. He has brought together a parcel of the oddest looking things you can conceive, if they are not conjuring instruments I only hope they are nothing worse. With the help of them he brings blue sparks out of a black tin case, and at the same time produces a smell which according to my nose is very like sulpher; he sets spirits on fire with a lump of ice, makes a piece of bladder rend into tatters with a report like a pistol, to the alarm of all my household; who, till they got used to such diabolical explosions, used to flock to his room, and peep through the key-hole, afraid to enter lest he should be found to have made away with himself. Once I saw him with my own eyes, put two different-coloured liquors into two glasses, and make them change places without either seeming to leave the bottles which he poured them into at first. I had the boldness to put my finger on one of his machines the other day, and received, as I deserved for meddling with such things, a shock through my whole frame, which you must know is pure weakly, which seemed to put all my bones out of joint, besides shaking my inside as if it would never be still again. Sir, I would'nt suffer the like a second time for the best note in the Bank of England.

His mother, whom he sometimes has the impudence to nickname pie-a-mata, for her skill in pastry I presume, was trying to persuade him to act like other folks, but in the midst of her advice, Mr. Philosopher takes the poker in his hand, knocks it violently against one of the bars of the stove, and desires the good woman to mark how the dust collects itself into little heaps by the powers of attraction. Upon which she very wisely remarked, that the dust collected fast enough without attracting it, and told him he would do better to take the hearth-broom and sweep up the litter he had made upon her bright bars.

He is visited by some of his college friends, who, between ourselves, do not appear to have gained much by going there. I'm sure I never I

saw a set of persons that seemed less likely to get on in the world. treat them with civility, though in my heart I cannot like them, and when one of them thought to please me by telling me of the honour Jack had gained as a wrangler, I couldn't help saying, it's a pity the heads of houses don't keep the young gentlemen to their books, instead of encouraging them to wrangle and dispute with one another. They ought to W. L. M. VOL. I. NO. VII.-Second Edition.

H

be ashamed of themselves for allowing such goings on in an English

university.

Now Mr. Editor the question is this: What is to be done with the young man? That he is a genius is beyond a doubt, for none but a genius would commit such mistakes as he commits every day of his life. I must say it would be a pity for one of his education, that knows so well how to measure Latin and Greek verses, to stand behind a counter measuring silks and satins, which he would most likely do by far too well for his own profit. He only seems fit for two things, one is to set up for a Conjuror, which would bring disgrace upon his honest and industrious family, and would break his poor mother's heart. The other is to turn Author, by which I am told as much can be earned as will find him in books, clothes, and washing, and as for his board and lodging, it shall go hard but I will provide them in my life-time; and after my decease, between ourselves, he will have no great occasion to fag, for I shall leave him whole and sole, &c.

ON GRAY'S ELEGY, WITH ADDITIONAL STANZAS.

THE following stanzas originally formed part of "The Elegy," and appeared in the first copy. As they are not generally known, and have been omitted in nearly every succeeding copy of that beautiful poem, they may perhaps prove new to some of its numerous readers. In pathos, elegance, and placid beauty, they are by no means inferior to those which the poet afterward composed and substituted.

After the verse

followed

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way,

The thoughtless world to majesty may bow,
Exalt the great, and idolize success,
But more, to innocence their safety owe
Than pow'r, or genius, e'er conspired to bless.

And thou, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead
Dost in those notes their artless tale relate,
By night, and lonely contemplation led
To wander in the gloomy walks of fate.

Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around,
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease,
In still small accents whispering from the ground,
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.

No more, with reason and thyself at strife,
Give anxious cares and endless wishes room;
But through the cool sequestered vale of life,
Pursue the silent tenor of thy doom.

Here the author originally intended the poem to conclude, before the felicitous idea of the "hoary headed swain," suggested itself to his imagination. The third stanza excites in the mind that peculiar and pensive pleasure which can only be truly felt at the scene, and at the hour which the poet has chosen for the subject of his moral song. The "sacred calm," entrances the imagination, and the "still small accents," even yet vibrate in our ears. The close of day heightens the beauty of the scene, and the solemn lesson which imparts itself to every mind in the silence which reigns in these chambers of death, is worth many long homilies. Of the two following stanzas, the first, describing the evening, would have been properly inserted in the poem, as morning and noon are mentioned. For after

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn,

originally followed

After the line

Him have we seen the greenwood side along,
While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done;
Oft as the woodlark pip'd her farewell song,
With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun.

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn,

the following beautiful stanza was originally inserted, but afterward omitted, as it made the parenthesis too long:

There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,
By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found,
The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

In the "Relics of Literature," an American writer observes, that "the celebrated Elegy in a Church-yard, by Gray, is well known, and justly admired by every one who has the least pretensions to taste. But with

all its polish, and deep poetic beauty and feeling, it always appeared to me to be defective, and I have met with a remark in Cecil's Remains, to the same effect. Amid a scene so well calculated to awaken in a pious mind, reflections on the sublime truths and inspiring hopes of Christianity, Gray, with the exception of two or three somewhat equivocal expressions, says scarcely a word which might not have been said by one who believed that death was an eternal sleep, and who was disposed to regard the humble tenants of those tombs as indeed Each in his narrow cell for ever laid.' With these views I have regretted, that sentiments similar to the following had not sprung up in the heart, and received the exquisite touches of the classic pen of Gray. I do not offer them to supply the deficiency. This would be as presumptuous and hopeless an attempt as that of the English artists to repair the mutilations which time or accident had occasioned among the inimitable relics of Grecian genius. They might with great propriety have followed the stanza, beginning

"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,"

No airy dreams their simple fancies fired,
No thirst for wealth, nor panting after fame;
But truth divine, sublimer hopes inspired,
And urged them onward to a nobler aim.

From every cottage, with the day arose
The hallowed voice of spirit-breathing prayer,
And artless anthems, at its peaceful close,
Like holy incense, charm'd the evening air.

Though they,-each tome of human lore unknown-
The brilliant path of science never trod,

The sacred volume claimed their hearts alone,
Which taught the way to glory and to God.

Here they from truth's eternal fountain drew
The pure and gladdening waters, day by day;
Learnt, since our days are evil, fleet, and few,
To walk in wisdom's bright and peaceful way.

In yon lone pile, o'er which hath sternly passed
The heavy hand of all-destroying time,

Through whose low mouldering aisles now sighs the blast,
And round whose altars grass and ivy climb;

They gladly thronged, their grateful hymns to raise,

Oft as the calm and holy sabbath shone,

The mingled tribute of their prayer and praise,

In sweet communion rose before the throne.

Here from those honoured lips, which sacred fire
From heaven's high chancery hath touched, they hear
Truths which their zeal inflame, their hopes inspire,
Give wings to faith, and check affliction's tear.

When life flowed by, and like an angel, death
Came to release them to the world on high,
Praise trembled still, on each expiring breath
And holy triumph beamed from every eye.

Then gentle hands their 'dust to dust' consign;
With quiet tears the simple rites are said,
And here they sleep, till at the trump divine
The earth and ocean render up their dead."

The remarks are in general just, and the poetry is elegant and pathetic; but it may be observed, that Gray, in the line "Each in his narrow cell for ever laid," did not obviously mean to inculcate a doctrine of "eternal sleep," but rather to notice the calm and peaceful life of a village peasant, and the cessation of its duties, its pleasures, and its hopes, as regarded a mortal existence, in the sleep of death. Thus Warton,

And when their temples long have wore

The silver crown of tresses hoar

As studious still, calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flow'ry turf they sleep.

THE HAMLET.

Poets have in every age amused themselves in depicting that forgetfulness of ills to be found in the grave.

Αλλά με τεθνειωτα χυτὴ καταγαῖα καλύπτοι,

Πρίν γ' ετι σῆς τε βοῆς σου ν' ελκηθμοῖο πυθεσθαι.

HOм. II. Z. 464.

May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Press'd with a load of monumental clay,

Thy Hector wrapt in everlasting sleep,

Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.

РОРЕ.

Yet the Greeks of that age believed in futurity; in Elysium and in Tartarus, nor did the father of poetry mean to teach the doctrine of eternal forgetfulness.

Φ.

HEARNE'S PRAYER.

THE following curious prayer by that celebrated Antiquary, is a singular instance of the power of the ruling passion.

"O most gracious and worshipful Lord God, wonderful in thy providence, I return all possible thanks to thee for the care thou hast always taken of me. I continually meet with signal instances of this thy providence, and one act yesterday when I unexpectedly met with three old MSS.; for which in a particular manner I return my thanks, beseeching thee to continue the same protection to me a poor helpless sinner, and that for Jesus Christ his sake."-Letters from the Bodleian. vol. i. p. 118.