street I crossed, seemed to find in my boots. And so sturdy was its amorous embrace, that at every step I came near being denuded of those useful pedal integuments. At the toll-house a new trouble assailed me. I found, to my great dismay, that my pantaloons' pocket contained not a copper. So, setting down my umbrella, and throwing my bundle of dickies, handkerchiefs, &c. into it, and pulling off my gloves, and unbuttoning my coat, I was obliged to "bide the pelting of the pitiless storm," all unprotected, while I searched in my inner coat-skirt pocket for my wallet; and finally extracting it, emptied it of a cent (" Parturiunt montes; nascetur ridiculus mus"), thrust the coin into the copper-greened hand which was stretched from the cabin, returned my purse to its nook, re-arranged my dress, re-possessed myself of my baggage and weather-shield, and re-commenced my ill-starred route. Indeed, one who without a loose piece of metal, short of his recondite pocket-book, stands shivering on such a night, before that Charon of a toll-man, might gladly exchange places with the poor wight of old, on the borders of the Styx, Qui "sedet in ripâ, tetrumque novicius horret * * * * * * nec habet, quem porrigat, ore trientem." I strode over the bridge, with a rapidity which grew with my vexation, my distaste for wind, cold, and wet, and my anxiety to reach my goal ere the appointed hour should expire, and the book-keeper's light should disappear from his window; "For while his lamp holds out to burn, "Well," I muttered to myself, "I hope that villanous Freshman * may not take it into his head to be strict. But if I do get my name entered, what have I to do then, but to get to my cold room and plunge into bed, or bore my neighbours, and kill two or three hours with cards and chat? And is this what I have been robbed of a good, social evening for? O, what a fool's errand I am on!" I shut up my mouth; but my thoughts were alternately of the probability of tender mercies on the part of the Freshman, of the amaz *For the information of uncollegiate readers, we would observe that this is the same personage as the book-keeper abovementioned. EDITOR. ing imperfection of all human laws, and of what a hell might be made, by the mere element of bad weather, out of this often delightful earth. Having crossed the bridge and the boarded walks which succeed, I found, added to the other désagrémens of the road, a deep, wide-spread, and clinging mire, through which I was obliged to plod, for the remainder of my journey. This commodity the delightful village of Cambridge-port abounds in, at every season when starting frost, melting snow, or falling rain gives any excuse for it. At the same time, the well-known varied and characteristic odors of the place assailed my nostrils, in even unusual intensity. In the reckless, horrid merriment of desperation, I set about amusing myself with devising sundry names which struck me as more appropriate for this sweet suburb, than that which it now bears. After revolving in my mind, Filthyville, Stenchton, Mudborough, I finally settled upon Badtown, as being more naïf and comprehensive than any of them. As I was drawing my boots alternately, like the two pistons of an engine, through the very most Plutonic and lutonic portion of the road, cannot you conceive how my irritation with every thing around me was increased to its highest pitch, by hearing (it was too dark to see) a worthy burgher commenting most loudly and proudly to a friend, from whom he was parting at his front door," on the excellent condition of our Cambridge roads"? However, with great effort I repressed most of my indignation; and the rest I transferred from my tongue to my legs, thinking that if it could excite any motion, it would be much more usefully employed in the nether limbs. Stout, indeed, and anxious were the strides with which I traversed the raised and fenced side-walks which adorn the hither end of the road; answering the rain-laden blasts which buffeted my persevering exertions in what seemed wanton cruelty and oppression, only with an occasional upbraiding glance, while I muttered to myself, "Thrice is he armed, who hath his quarrel just." This part of the route I accomplished with no more than the usual mishaps. I stumbled into three eddy-worn pits bruised myself against posts at the beginning and end of each side-walk, and finally was hooked by one of the very 3 cows these posts were designed to exclude. The tumult of this encounter, the crash arising from my violent fall against the fence, and the explosion of mire caused by my brute antagonist and myself in our finally successful attempts to pass, caught the ears of two patrols who were stationed not far from the spot, to protect the fence against some rogue who had been amusing himself of late with mutilating it by night. No sooner, therefore, had I cleared the quadruped obstruction, than these bipeds fell upon me, for committing a deliberate assault upon the fence! This was too much for human patience! With an inarticulate roar of rage, which made one of them take to his heels instanter, I hurled at the other my bundle and umbrella at once, stretched him in the soft clay, where, for aught I know, he lies buried to this moment, and picking up my missiles, I completed my route on a full run, vexation and fury burning on my cheeks, and covering my lips with foam. But mental tumult and bodily exertions were alike unavailing. Try, my dear Editor, to conceive my condition, when, after undergoing such sufferings as I have described to you, I found myself at last at the Freshman's room-what with the various necessary delays that had occurred on my way, and a difference of a quarter of an hour between Cambridge and Boston time--forty minutes too late! The Freshman very quietly declined entering my name. Had I been any other mortal on earth than the one I am, should I not have vented all my aggregate of spleen on his head? But this was one of those great and almost overwhelming temptations to the indulgence of passion, which it has always been observed I combat more successfully than the minor irritating occurrences of life. "Well, Sir," I replied, in low and hurried accents, the suppressed emotion which struggled in my throat almost choking my utterance, "if it is a point of conscience with you, not to enter names so late as this after the hour, I am the last man that would solicit you to accommodate any one contrary to your own sense of duty. Good evening, Sir." I hurried from the room, lest my forced philosophy should give way. Most assuredly, if it had, such a torrent of imprecation and execration would have burst forth, as would have utterly astounded the poor book-keeper, summoned in the neighbours, and brought eternal disgrace upon me. I have reached my room, and am marked delinquent. A delightful, renovating, social evening has been broken up; and for what? To make a fire and sit down to a lesson, in my present bodily exhaustion, and with all the experiences both good and evil of the day dwelling on my mind, is impossible. Having employed half an hour in penning you this narrative (pray excuse any thing in it that may appear splenitive or exaggerated, in consideration of my wretched and morbidly excited state); I shall now plunge into a comfortless bed and try “to steep my senses in forgetfulness.” Yours, wretchedly, C. DOMAL. THE DUNNED. THERE is a dark and meagre form, I cannot fly away from it, ”T is mirrored in mine aching eyes— It lurks in every shape of earth, And fills the vacant air: Wherever I may turn my glance That phantom-shape is there! I gaze upon a pillowy cloud, As it floats in splendor by: But soon it takes that fearful shape, I look upon the foaming sea, With nought to make me smile again, And nought to make me weep. But soon a dismal form starts up Dressed in a suit of raven black, With a hat upon its head— And upwards comes that gloomy shape, And then a deep and hollow voice But still am doomed to hear: Although the while my heart beats quick, That voice is sounding everywhere— I hear it in the rushing blast- Or skims with noiseless wing along That form!-it is a tailor-man That voice!—it is a tailor-man's, He may not keep away! SONG. THE rosebud on the rosetree, |