EDITOR.
TEMPLETON.

Носк.

TEMPLETON.

Носк.

TEMPLETON.

Носк.

Salotte's "Polar Informations,"

Volume first of Gale's "Transactions,"
"Phones, on Planetary Actions,”-
Page 8, line 5, in " Cam. Mechanics ".
Lockhart's "Moods of Diaphanics,”-
"Light, with Notes by MR. CHEW,”-
Already have I read them through,
And if you 'll not o'erflow me quite,
I'll prove the problem to your sight.
Suppose this table's green baize face,—
Called A,- to be th' ethereal space;
Suppose the sun this candlestick,
And B shall be the blazing wick;
And for the Earth my hat we 'll take,
And call it C for shortness' sake.
The rays of light, from B to C,

Denominate by little d.

Now C can only move in A,

While A's a vacuum every way;
But d, in going from B to C,

Goes through this space we clearly see;
And being matter, plain 's the case
That A can't be a vacant space;
And therefore C can't move in A,
And must stand still; but once a day,
We know that C in fact turns round!
Thus falls your theory to the ground,—

SHERRY.

AIRY.

TEMPLETON.

Носк.

EDITOR.

TEMPLETON.
CHORUS.
EDITOR.

SHERRY.

GEOFFREY.

SHERRY.

GEOFFREY.

SHERRY.

For C does move, and A is space,-
And d's not matter,-with your grace.
For mercy's sake do not enlarge on
Such thoughts, in such a horrid jargon!
It sets my teeth on edge, and makes
My hair coil round and round like snakes!
The sun is not your hat, and all
Your proof without its base must fall.
The sun is o'er my head.-Then,—one,—
Whate'er is o'er my head 's the sun.-
But,-two,-my hat is o'er my head.-
Thus,-three, the sun's my hat foresaid.
Dear Gentlemen, I beg you 'd cease!
Fallacious reasoning,—

Keep the peace!
My budget is not finished quite,
Nor will be finished through the night
If thus you talk away the time!
Here is a "Song in Anciente Rime,"
Which, with this "Indian Maiden's Wail,"
These "Sonnets" and this " Simple Tale,"
Must, though in truth I grieve to ask it,—
Hunt for a corner in the Basket.

"My College Room,"-" The Modern Wife,"
And this the Abbé Prévot's Life,

From M. L. D.-a worthy friend,-
Elaborate and neatly penned,

An article refined and nice,

Though rather,—for our work,—precise.
"Verses to an undressed Salad,”-

"Fanny," and another "Ballad,"

"Mysterious Stranger,"-" To my Pipe,”— Which (sub.) goes in,-in the Bourgeois type. Bourgeois, Charles! you surely jest!

Bourgeois, Sir, is far the best.

The leaded Brevier, as I think,
Imparts a rather firmer ink.

Why, brother GEOF. in types, your taste,
Is quite as vulgar as unchaste!

Why, Sir, you might as well at once,

Print it in Primer like a dunce!

The Bourgeois 's best, I do repeat!

GEOFFREY.

The leaded Brevier's far more neat!

SHERRY.

GEOFFREY.

EDITOR.

The Bourgeois, Sir, looks full and ripe!
The Brevier still's the better type !
Good Brothers, do not thus dispute !
He knows no more than does my boot!
Did I not, like a printer sage,
In Pica print a half a page?

Ay, Sir, and then in turning round
Did you not knock a column down?
By Hercules! You little Pindar,
I'll toss you from this open window!
Oh, misery!

SHERRY.

GEOFFREY.

SHERRY.

GEOFFREY.

EDITOR.

TEMPLETON.

SHERRY.

Bourgeois,

I fear they'll fight!

(Enter beefsteak on a platter,-members crowd around the table,— GEOFFREY and SHERRY sit at opposite sides,-AIRY asks for a delicate slice,-EDITOR seizes the carving knife,-Hock and TEMPLETON look downcast,-FATHER LUKE's govòs, left empty from respect, for he had not been seen or heard through the evening,-during the clatter of knives and forks, rattling of plates,-adjusting of chairs,—and chattering of members, the worthy brother with a severe cast of countenance comes forward from an obscure corner and thus begins)

LUKE.

Oh! what a dolorous, lamentable fall! Cease,-cease, my throbbing heart,-
That swell 'st to think that we should play this vile degenerate part!!
To think that we, who used to meet so learned and sedate,
Should sink so low as making rhyme,-and eating buttered steak!
Nor, dearest FRANK, and brothers all, from this, opine, that I'm

Not able to speak melody nor capable of rhyme,

Since as you see, on this command, I speak as smooth as you,
Although I 've seldom tried before, and though the thing be new!
Nor,-dearest GEOF. opine from this, that I dislike to take
Sometimes a tender, well-done slice, of tender, well-done steak,

For from my earliest years I 've had a loving for that meat,
Which long ago Achilles loved to broil-to cook—and eat!
But I lament the stuffing of the modern-fangled school,
Should creep into our Club in spite of our accustomed rule!
Besides I have another grief,—and that afflicts me most,—
For three nights past, at just this hour, I 've seen a ghastly ghost.
(Club starts, turns pale, and looks around the room.)

For three nights past-tormenting nights—exactly at this time,-
When all the world is gone to sleep except we men of rhyme—
Precisely at this hour,-I heard some pit-pat steps to tread,

(steps heard.) Like the slow and solemn steps that come from the lowly buried dead! Precisely at this hour,-I heard three hollow knocks to sound,

(Knocks heard.)

Like knocks from bony fingers that have rotted under ground!!
Precisely at this hour,—I saw a black-faced, ragged imp
To stalk within my chamber door with a hobbling goblin limp,
Who pointed to the canvass bag that rode upon his back,
And looked as though he wanted me to get into his sack !!!

(Door opens,-printer's devil limps in, with a bag on his shoulder, and on it Copy-shows his teeth-members retreat precipitately from the table,-chairs knocked over in direful confusion-they rush into a corner—Hock gets into the chimney, and Sherry under a table.)

LUKE. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Whence and what are you? PR. DEVIL. I am the Devil!

(Members grumble—grand exeunt-Printer's devil putteth the beef

steak into his sack and decampeth.)

THE

COLLEGIAN.

No. VI.

JULY, 1830.

PASSING AWAY.

I HAVE but a single idea left; a vague and indefinite apprehension that it is something warm. I doubted, half an hour ago, if my pen would ever touch paper again, there was such an apparent dissolving gradually creeping over my system. Although, like Othello, I am unused to the melting mood, my thoughts under the insufferable heat become deeply tinged with the pathetic.

It is now some four years since, that I was winding my way through the streets of the neighbouring metropolis, a few minutes before five on a very sultry morning. I was sinking under a heavy load of books, and a heavier load of anxiety in respect to the approaching crisis. At the striking of the clock, I was to meet, under the shadow of Park Street Church, a number who were to go through with me the perils of the day. As usual, I was slightly late; and my more vigilant companions were fretting themselves into a passion at my delay. But on seating myself with them in the hackney, I allowed their displeasure to cool into a gradual goodhumor.

Here were a good half score, with some hundred volumes, in the small compass of a coach. It is unnecessary to speak of our sufferings during the journey, nor of the sinking of the heart with which we descended from our vehicle beneath the elm that stands in front of University Hall. I met a multitude of queer-looking people there, gathered from every