Perspective dawn’d—and soon I saw
My houses stand against its law;
And “keeping” all unkept!
My beauties were no longer things
For love and fond imaginings;
But horrors to be wept!
Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?
Why did I get more artist-wise?
It only serves to hint,
What grave defects and wants are mine;
That I’m no Hilton in design—
In nature no Dewint!
Thrice happy time!—Art’s early days!
When o’er each deed with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!
When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,
And such old masters all were deem’d
As nothing to the young!
In verification of the old saying, “Once a man, twice a child,” Mr. Hood tells of “A School for Adults,”—and gives a picture of aged men, baldheaded and wigged, whose education had been neglected, studying their A, B, C. A letter from one of them at a preparatory school is exceedingly amusing. The article is preceded by a dramatic scene.
Servant. How well you saw
Your father to school to-day, knowing how apt
He is to play the truant.
Son. But is he not
yet gone to school?
Servant. Stand by, and you shall see.
Enter three old men, with satchels, singing.
All three. Domine, domine, duster,
Three knaves in a cluster.
Son. O this is gallant pastime. Nay, come on
Is this your school? was that your lesson, ha?
1st Old Man. Pray, now, good son, indeed, indeed—
Son. Indeed
You shall to school. Away with him; and take
Their wagships with him, the whole cluster of them.
2d Old Man. You shan’t send us, now, so you shan’t—
3d Old Man. We be none of your father, so we be’nt.—
Son.
Away with ’em, I say; and tell their school-mistress
What truants they are, and bid her pay ’em soundly.
All three. Oh! oh! oh!
Lady. Alas! will nobody beg pardon for
The poor old boys?
Traveller. Do men of such fair years here go to school?
Native. They would die dunces else
These were great scholars in their youth; but when
Age grows upon men here, their learning wastes,
And so decays, that, if they live until
Threescore, their sons send ’em to school again;
They’d die as speechless else as new-born children.
Traveller. ’Tis a wise nation, and the piety
Of the young men most rare and commendable:
Yet give me, as a stranger, leave to beg
Their liberty this day.
Son. ’Tis granted.
Hold up your heads; and thank the gentleman,
Like scholars, with your heels now.
All three. Gratias! gratias! gratias! [Exit, singing.]
“The Antipodes,” by R. Brome.
No reader of the first series of the “Whims and Oddities” can have forgotten “The Spoiled Child” of “My Aunt Shakerly,” or the unhappy lady herself; and now we are informed that “towards the close of her life, my aunt Shakerly increased rapidly in bulk: she kept adding growth unto her growth,
“Giving a sum of more to that which had too much,”