MOMENTA LANKIANA. No. IV.

THE RETURN.

Those who have never been long absent from their friends and home, can scarcely appreciate the feelings of one who is returning to the scenes of his childhood and happiest days. Each tree, each stone, each stump carries with it some remembrances that send back the pleased fancy to days long past, and almost obliterated by the stealing tread of years. The pleasure we experience in beholding again the mute witnesses of our former joys, almost recompenses us for the pain of leaving them; and a melancholy association hallows them in our eyes, as the mementos of happiness.

Thus did every little hillock and mountain-hollow appear consecrated to me, while by my fellow-passengers they were regarded with cold and listless observation, or not even noticed at all. I had been for seven years absent from my native village, and was now returning after having ended the happy life of a collegian. From the moment I had left the delightful spot which for four years had been a witness to my pleasures and pursuits,-bereft on a sudden of class-mates and associates, whom long acquaintance had almost incorporated with my happiness, without any relation who cared for me, and no prospect of a pleasant life before me, my heart had sickened within me, and the remembrances that every object as I approached the scene of my younger days called up were not of a nature to dispel the misanthropic melancholy I felt. Teased almost from infancy on account of my name,-which as I afterwards found was done by some of my relations from mercenary motives,— it was not to be wondered at that I had changed it, although by so doing according to my father's will my whole property went to my uncle's family. With a small competence left me by my mother, I purposed to set up an office in some country town. But all my plans of future life, were altered by a simple circumstance that occurred on my arrival at my native village.

There were many more inhabitants than formerly,—a few brick houses had sprung up, and a row of shops were smil

ing along the main street;—and most of my numerous relations had sunk one by one into the grave. A new Hotel fronted the street, whose worthy landlord offered to carry me to a ball that was to be given that evening. Having willingly accepted his invitation, and searched in vain for a familiar face among the assembled groups, my host directed my attention to a pretty, graceful, lively young girl. After having enjoyed a long conversation with her, I waited on her next morning. She was my uncle Jacob's daughter Maria, and with candid frankness, disclosed many interesting particulars. It seems that my uncle, being an artless, good-natured man, had been imposed on by his wife, who, after having plagued me about my name to the extent of her abilities for the purpose of making me change it, and thus acquiring the property, had, no the accomplishment of her wishes, gone with her daughter to Richmond, where they lived in style. The mother had died a short time before, and Miss had run off with a shopkeeper. Enchanted with her simplicity and beauty, I was soon entangled in those very snares, which I had so long made so many resolutions to avoid. Instead of living a poor and miserable practitioner of law, I shall live in affluence, and have a lovely wife to grace the family mansion of the Lanks.*

* Here ends the original manuscript. It seems that the author, on his coming back to Commencement, placed these interesting documents in a crevice in his wall for any one who might in future discover them. We were hunting for some fishing tackle, amid the countless numbers of heterogeneous nondescripts which generally fill a student's closet, when we discovered these interesting papers. With as few alterations as possible,we have endeavoured to leave the native simplicity and sincerity of Mr. Lank in their truest colors.

We have long thought that a novel or a biography might be written in a new way, and our conjectures were confirmed by the discovery of the Life of Mr Lank, in which, by an extraordinarily novel arrangement, he has told his story, without the least prolixity or circumlocution. The first part, concerning his name, gives the particulars of his infancy; the second, of his school-fellows, lets us into his feelings and friendships while a school-boy; the third part, entitled "My College Room," in a few words explains the character of his whole college life; while the fourth, ycleped "The Return," gives us a succinct account of his time subsequently to leaving college up to the period of his marriage, when of course the account stops. It is much to be regretted that many of our popular novel-writers and biographers would not follow the example of Mr. Obadiah Lank.

EDITOR.

THE GRADUATE'S SONG.

It's I that is a bachelor, though married to the Muse,
I talks with all the gentlefolks, and flirts with all the blues;
It's I that looks as knowing now as any body can,
For once I was a Sophomore, but now I am a man.

I quotes the ancient classicals, I knows the newest tunes,
I wears a coat that's elegant, and striped pantaloons;
It's I that has the shiny boots, and sports the spotted gills,
It's I that drinks the Burgundy, and never pays my bills.

I keeps a little puppy dog, I has a little cane,

I beaus the pretty virgins out and beaus them home again;
It's I that pins their handkerchiefs, it's I that ties their shoes,
It's I that goes a shopping for to tell them what to choose.

Who should it be, of all the world, who should it be but I,
That writes the pretty poetry what makes the women cry ?
I sees the people stare at me, because I looks so fine,
I loves the fat old grocer men, what asks me out to dine.

I knows a little Latin stuff and half a line of Greek,
My barber is a Frencher man, he taught me how to speak;
It's I that makes the morning calls, it's I goes out to tea,
O dear! you never saw a man one half so cute as me.

PRIVATE LETTER FROM MR. SHERRY.

MY DEAR EDITOR,

July 3.

I HAVE got your note acknowledging the receipt of my article, and regret that serious indisposition prevents both my waiting upon you, and receiving your visits at my room. I am sorry to hear that the assemblies at Club are alarmingly frequent, but that your communications still continue alarmingly few. It is currently reported in H'y that AIRY is violently in love with an hundred thousand, and writing verses to the eyes of his lady, when he ought to be concocting articles for the pages of The Collegian. When last out, I called upon him; and found in his apartments no indications of its having been recently inhabited. A sheet of pa

per and a bottle of claret were the only articles to be found in his side-board. I finished the claret, and with my pencil drew up a feeling remonstrance on the impropriety of not furnishing the proper glasses for his wine, as I was reduced to the miserable necessity of drinking it from a tumbler. Do'nt mention it, for it would ruin both AIRY and myself.

his

LOCKFAST, you tell me, has gone to New York. Poor fellow ! I am afraid he will be ruined by the shocking dissipations of that crowded metropolis. I was told that he had been enticed away by a pair of bright eyes, notwithstanding age and wisdom. He should be written to for an article. TEMPLETON the quiet, contemplative, enthusiastic, incongruous TEMPLETON-I have not seen him these three weeks. Where is he? Tell him to come and see me. I have need of his tongue. Perhaps it will talk me into better health. You must wake him up for a paper on some interesting subject, or I am afraid the number will never be out on the tenth.

And how is it with LA-TOUCHE? Lessons in boxing this warm weather must be very unpleasant. If you see him, I wish you would just inform him that if he can graduate his truculency by the thermometer of a sick chamber, there is none of the Club whom I would shake by the hand more violently than himself. Be sure that you tell him, however, he must let me lie quietly in my bed, and neither meddle with my books nor papers; that I have arranged every thing with you in respect to my articles, and that it is not for such as he to talk loudly to me about indolence.

I have been running through "Paul Clifford " and " Clarence," and Mr. E's article on the Tone of British Criticism in respect to our own country. They are all capital, and a few more matters of the kind would restore me, both in mind and body, to a very agreeable situation. "Lucy," in Mr. Bulwer's book, is an angel, though certainly not a particularly prudent angel. "Clarence" is a little of the same stamp, and if I can ever find out where Mr. Roscoe has settled, I shall immediately pay my addresses to one of the daughters. I am told that they are not numerous, and that the family estate is every year rapidly increasing in value.

By the way, what do you think of Willis's notice? We hardly know how to consider it. For my own part I suppose it intended for complimentary, but he certainly patron

His own ar

izes too severely for a mere Bachelor of Arts. ticles in the June number, which I wish you would send to my room when you have done with it, are as usual very good. And for a wonder there are a couple of beautiful poems-his verse-writers generally you know commit very paltry things. If he would only procure two or three clever creatures at knick-knacks, besides himself, I should live in hopes of a first-rate magazine.

Do you know, my dear fellow, what I have heard about you. Like Mrs. Malaprop now, own "the soft impeachment." I am told that you are deeply attached to a beautiful mistress, and that you sit for hours dreaming in the light of her full, hazy, voluptuous eye. And moreover that the creature is hardly of earth, and not all of flesh and blood, but a mere abstraction, and her name is Indolence. This may answer as the times go now, in our present situation. But she is faithless as Frailty-prithee, my good pen, have done with this nonsense.

I hardly think that my illness has taken away loquacity, for here am I scribbling one of the longest epistles I ever penned, for the mere gratification of my propensity. Speaking of letter-writing, did you ever correspond with a young lady? I think it must be one of the heavenliest exercises of wit: I do, indeed. A letter of business, or duty, or apology, or excuse, or condolence, why I would as soon perpetrate a political squib, or a paper on antimasonry, as think of such a thing. But to write to an interesting girl, and tell her what has happened since your last interview, and the myriad of et cæteras that rapidly and vividly present themselves, with sundries in the shape of wit, pathos, and poetry—it must be perfectly enchanting. And then to run over her reply— finding it on your table some pleasant evening-and while you are wondering how in the devil it came there, to open so skilfully that the seal shall remain unbroken, and not a letter of the dear contents be torn away. I have had dreams of such things, and read such letters (Miss Sniffle's, videlicet) and written them, but when I was a mere boy. I am no child now, they say. It amuses me to see our Seniors squabble about their ages. Some would think they were a parcel of girls. Two of my friends, "and their names begin with a J," are bordering you know upon twenty-five, though they answer only to twenty-one; and they would swear, counter

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