Till we by change, graff, and innoculation, "Though chance the human breed may often cross, Base ore is often mix'd with sordid dross, Or spume and scum, which make it baser still: The epicure, tied to the glutton gross; The stagnant lake mix'd with the ice-bound rill; The boasting bully weds the shrill-tongu'd shrew; When matches thus are made-what monsters must ensue ! "I'd have a law, forbidding fools to mingle; Hence might be mix'd the brown and fair complexion, "Methinks, for man, it were a glorious scheme And beauty bloom on ev'ry human face; The morn of Science smiles upon our clime; In noontide blaze, surcharg'd with light sublime! Perfection's era is approaching fast; She speeds her flight swift on the wings of time; Why was I born a century too soon? O were my life prolong'd, to hail that sun-bright noon! "Vain wish! and I to marriage feel inclin'd; "Tis just the thing I wish, and ev'ry where respected. "Divines and sages have bewilder'd been; How vain each visionary, mystic notion! And skulls are just like barrel-organs seen, Some tun'd to love, and others to devotion; In some such flats and sharps discordant mingling, He nightly on the novel system ponder'd, Fond, yet afraid, his occiput to handle; Deep lost in thought, he mus'd, admir'd, and wonder'd ; To search the brain;-he finger'd, felt, and blunder'd ; For in a proverb, long confirm'd the fact is, Though theory be good, perfection springs from practice. He grop'd for bumps in Tom the shoe-boy's crown; When thumbing past her locks of matted brown; Unseen the parson-and unheard his lecture; A passing sea of heads came under his review. He sigh'd with craving, restless, keen anxiety, His fancy kindled at the banquet sweet, Whene'er he mingled with the young and fair, His eyes were foil'd to aid conjecture there; For o'er their craniums fashion's masks were spread, And bonnets, caps, bandeaus, and plaited hair, Forbade inspection of a lady's head; His boasted science here essay'd in vain, To trace the mazy wilds of woman's teeming brain. But still, resolv'd each obstacle to master, He purchas'd skulls and casts in Paris plaster, But found his progress stopp'd-for, dire disaster! Then off to London quick our hero scampers— Returns with fresh supply, in boxes, tubs, and hampers. And now was fitted up a light saloon, Where busts, contrasted, rang'd in order stood; The sage was plac'd beside the droll buffoon, 'Twas here Phrenology, in dazzling noon, Could not such contrast shew-such field for contemplation. "Twould tire the reader, and exhaust his time, At Homer's elbow carping Zoilus stood, Here he who "gave his little senate law," Still look'd with scorn on haughty Cæsar's pride; And Howard smil'd serene by Nero's side. John Knox still frown'd on Scotia's beauteous Queen- : And Johnson, fir'd with virtue's noble rage; Still seem'd to sing, "Whatever is, is right." And, what was stranger still, mild Wordsworth stood between! But o'er the motely group we'll draw a veil; For brevity is still the muse's aim; Your patience, reader, and my rhymes would fail, Ere I could register each sounding name That there had place: suffice to say, the scale Extended o'er the ample roll of fame; Embracing hero, poet, sage, and braggart, "From Macedonia's madman" down to David Haggart! In this Lyceum, patient as a clerk, Who tries some ancient record to explore, Our hero, studious, daily made remark, He'd tell their names and natures in the dark, So oft each head-piece had been handled o'er; "And now," said he, "I've had a pleasant trouble; But when I chuse my bride, I'll be rewarded double! "I'm glad I was not that romantic fool, To fix myself in matrimonial trap, Till I had been at Spurzheim's magic school, To know the lady-feel below her cap!' I'll chuse, of Nature's works, the nearest to perfection. "But ladies are a coy, capricious sex, And some, fastidious, haply may refuse So low to bend their snow-white, beauteous necks, But why despond before I make the trial? "Tis time enough to pause when I have met denial." To put the science in immediate action, On wings of love to her he bent his way; In restless search, to find a fav'rite bump; But she had something in her skull bewitching, Which made his fingers dance as with Galvanic twitching. The first he felt was right behind her crown, And rose his buoyant hopes in doubt to drown; And long he search'd in vain to find a counter check. He, speechless, gaz'd upon the beauteous fair; His fingers stray'd amidst her auburn hair, Her cheek was glowing like the morning sky; The strife was long-a well-contested field; I ne'er shall wilfully myself deceive With one so fair-so much to pleasure prone; We still may hope he'll find a gentle bride; ON CASTLE-BUILDING. I BELONG to a class of architects, whose productions, I am sorry to say, are looked upon by the public in general with rather an unfavourable eye. It is true, they have nothing to say against us, either on the score of beauty, or rapidity of execution; but there is one weak side, on which they have discovered that we are penetrable stuff, and against which, sundry biting sarcasms, and potent conclusions, have been directed by the ultra-reasonable part of mankind. In short, they have discovered that we do not build for posterity; and the want of stability in our edifices forms a standing joke against us. A punning acquaintance of mine annoys me regularly with certain venerable jokes on my extensive property in the Isle of Sky, the county of Ayr, and Terra Incognita, which, if age and long acquaintance ought to command respect, have the best claim in the world to that privilege. Another kindly insinuates something about the foolish man who built his house upon the sand. And I have more than once been cut short in pursuing the thread of some splendid speculation, by the polite enquiry which Leo addressed to Ariosto, when he presented him with a copy of the Orlando Furioso: "Where, in the name of wonder, I had collected such a parcel of nonsense, and what possible purpose it could serve?" This, I confess, is one of those questions which are a great deal more easily asked than answered. In such cases, the argumentum ex crumenâ is the only one which is considered of any weight; and unless you can reduce your theory to its value in specie, you may as well give up the point at once. Unfortunately, however, I feel myself barred, personali objectione, as the lawyers say, from the use of this argument; for though I consider myself as quite an intellectual Palladio, and have built, in my time, palaces as splendid as the fabled edifices of Aladdin or Kublakhan, or Alcina and Armida, I am sorry to say that they have vanished with as much celerity as they arose, and the place where they were known, now knows them no more. They have disappeared be fore the strong light of reality, like the Czar's famous palace of ice, at the first splendour of a Russian sum mer. about as productive, in a pecuniary Of course, they have been point of view, as a Frenchman's Château in Gascony. My income, which was never very large, grows "small by degrees, and beautifully less," and I begin to think I shall soon find myself in the situation of presence, but no land beside." honest Faulconbridge, "lord of my still, however, cling to my favourite pursuits, with the fondness and the obstinacy of an alchymist. HappiI seek; and if, from the objects ness is the philosopher's stone which that are scattered around me, I can elaborate, in the crucible of the mind, visions, I shall not think that the a fairer world, and more delightful process by which these effects have been produced has been in vain, or When, by indulging in the contemthat my toils have evaporated in fumo. plation of an imaginary world, I find I can lighten the crosses, or soothe the disappointments, of this, and even reap a present pleasure from and contingent, I cannot regret the the prospect of one that is future hours which I have thus spent, or say with Titus, " I have lost a day." Happiness is still the same, whether it is gained in the actual or ideal possession of the object of our wishes: whether we are ourselves carried down by the tempestuous current of the world, or only image forth, in the silence and calmness of the study, the windings of our course, and the pleasures of the voyage. " 66 Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who, secure within himself, can say, to-day. Be fair or foul, or rain or shine, are mine: Not Jove himself upon the past hath Such is the happiness of the castle- |