Here is Jack moaning with despair and Byronic misanthropy, whose career at the university was one of unmixed milk-punch.

Here is Tom's daring Essay in defence of suicide and of republicanism in general, apropos of the death of Roland and the Girondins--Tom's, who wears the starchest tie in all the diocese, and would go to Smithfield rather than eat a beefsteak on a Friday in Lent.

Here is Bob of the -- -- Circuit, who has made a fortune in Railroad Committees, and whose dinners are so good--bellowing out with Tancred and Godfrey, "On to the breach, ye soldiers of the cross, Scale the red wall and swim the choking foss.

Ye dauntless archers, twang your cross-bows well; On, bill and battle-axe and mangonel! Ply battering-ram and hurtling catapult, Jerusalem is ours--id Deus vult." After which comes a mellifluous description of the gardens of Sharon and the maids of Salem, and a prophecy that roses shall deck the entire country of Syria, and a speedy reign of peace be established--all in undeniably decasyllabic lines, and the queerest aping of sense and sentiment and poetry.

And there are Essays and Poems along with these grave parodies, and boyish exercises (which are at once so frank and false and mirthful, yet, somehow, so mournful) by youthful hands, that shall never write more.