Some fourteen years ago there appeared in one of the English magazines an amusing article, showing up the aristocratic stupidity of the large and costly English annuals, which were indebted almost exclusively to the nobility for their contents. Until then, we had not been made aware that the Duke of Wellington was a poet. But it seems that we were mistaken; the "noble Duke" is a master of the military sonnet, a specimen of which is subjoined. Its "terse composition," the "boldness of its character," its "laconic simplicity," and martial "determination," were very highly commended by the editor:
Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!
Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!
O Britain! oh, my country! words like these
Have made thy name a terror and a fear
To all the nations. Witness Ebro's bank
Assays, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo,
Where the grim despot muttered, "Sauve qui peut!"
And Ney fled darkling. Silence in the ranks!
Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash
Of armies in the centre of his troop,
The soldier stands—immovable, not rash
Until the forces of the foemen droop;
Then knock the Frenchmen to eternal smash,
Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!
Thus the "Conquerer of Napoleon" conquers the stubborn rhyme!
"I suppose," writes a contemplative and elegant modern English author, now unnamed, but who can not long remain stat nominis umbra, "that it has happened to most men who observe their thoughts at all, to notice how some expression returns again and again in the course of their meditations, or, indeed, of their business, forming, as it were, a refrain to all they think or do, for any given hour. Sometimes, too, this refrain has no particular concern with the thought or business of the day, but seems as if it belonged to some under-current of thought and feeling. This at least is what I experienced to-day myself, being haunted by a bit of old Spanish poetry, which obtruded itself, sometimes inopportunely, sometimes not so, in the midst of all my work or play. The words were these:
'How quickly passes pleasure away
How, after being granted.
It gives pain:
How, in our opinion,
Any past time
Was better,'
(than that we passed in pleasure). It was not that I agreed with the sentiment, except as applied to vicious pleasure; being rather of Sydney Smith's mind, that the remembrance of past pleasure is present pleasure; but I suppose the words chimed in with reflections on the past which formed the under-current of my thoughts, as I went through the wood of beeches which bounded my walk to day.... In a moment I went back, not to the pleasures, but to the ambitious hopes and projects of youth. And when a man does reflect upon the ambitions which are as characteristic of that period of life as reckless courage or elastic step, and finds that at each stage of his journey since, some hope has dropped off as too burdensome or too romantic, till at last it is enough for him to carry only himself at all upright in this troublesome world—what thoughts come back upon him! How he meditates upon his own errors and short-comings, and sees that he has had not only the hardness, oiliness, and imperturbability of the world to contend with; but that he himself has generally been his worst antagonist. In this mood I might have thrown myself upon the mound under a great beech-tree that was near, the king of the woods, and uttered many lamentations; but instead of doing any thing of the kind, I walked sedately by it; for, as we go on in life, we find we can not afford excitement, and we learn to be parsimonious in our emotions."
One of the Boston newspapers, in allusion to the great Railroad Festival which is about taking place, as the last sheets of our Magazine are passing through the press, observes: "The Canadian Judiciary Courts have adjourned for the whole of the next week, in order to give an opportunity to our Canadian friends to be present at the great Railroad Jubilee, to be celebrated in our city. They are expected to arrive in great numbers on Tuesday of next week. That day will be devoted to an examination of our city. On Wednesday there will be a formal reception; and the City Government will accompany their English guests to the Bunker Hill Monument and other places of interest." Now we can not dissociate that word 'interest,' from the same word which forms the nucleus of an anecdote, which we will venture to relate, in illustration of the kind of 'interest' which a loyal English subject might be supposed to feel in paying a visit to Bunker Hill. At Bladensburgh battle-field, there is a very non-committal guide who shows visitors over the ground, enlightening those who are ignorant as to the character of the ground, where the different forces lay, how they advanced, and the like. The guide, however, is a 'prudent man,' for his situation depends upon being 'all things to all men' who may chance to be obliged to avail themselves of his services. If he is showing an English party over the ground, he fancies that he knows it, and therefore 'governs himself accordingly;' if an American party, he throws his 'balance of power' in the other scale. But he was sadly puzzled once. He could get no 'cue' from the gentleman and his friend, who had secured his services, as to whether they were English or Americans—the conversation was so vague and so limited. "Why was it," said one of these visitors, "that the Americans fled on this occasion?" "Fled!" he exclaimed, as if with impromptu dignity—"fled!" "Yes," said his interrogator, "why did the Americans retreat on that occasion?—why did they run away!" "Retreat!—run away!—guess not! Yes: well—perhaps they did. Yes; I b'lieve they did. The reason was, that somehow or 'nother they didn't seem to take no interest!"