divinity schools-and a very dull, particularly sombre kind of places they are-for some part of three hours; but as we commenced the proceedings just before the clock struck two, and concluded them a few minutes after the stroke of three, we made, as the saying is, the best of a bad job. The auditory, too, by the by, was by no means more formidable than I had found them in my celebrated concio ad clericum; the individuals who composed it being, besides the professor and my opponent, only the aforementioned college father, aged twenty-five.

Apropos of my opponent, why he should be called so I don't know, for no two men ever agreed better than we did; we made acquaintance upon the spot, and many a long conversation together assisted to beguile the tediousness of my sojourn in Alma Mater. In a moment of confidential familiarity I revealed to him the reasons of my taking "my doctor's degree," and with the same spirit he also explained to me his motives for undertaking the same step.

"The fact is, Mr. Smith," said he, "that I am in the habit of scribbling and publishing a little, and as the publishers and booksellers tell me that D.D. after a name adds a certain degree of weight to the book, why I consented to adopt these cabalistic letters; and between you and myself, I hope the alteration will pay the expense."

I liked the man for his honesty.

"But," added he, "to-morrow, if you are willing, I will introduce you to a soon-to-be fellow-doctor of ourselves, whose case bears some slight resemblance to yours; he has married a lady with a title, and I fancy that all will soon discover that his sole object in following our course is that Doctor and Lady Emily Patten sounds vastly more satisfactorily to both parties than Mr. and Lady Emily Patten."

The next day fully confirmed what my friend had told me; never was a poor man more belaboured by a title than was I-no man before could ever have been so loved by a Lady Emily. "Pray, Mr. Smith, step up for one moment, I have a word to say to Lady Emily; you must let me introduce you to her ladyship, she will be delighted to know you."

Poor Lady Emily! she was very fat, certainly above forty, and it would be most unfair to call her fair; but Lady Emily suffered much from nervous debility, she told me. It might be so, and perhaps that may account for her rather steady application to port wine, which I remarked when I dined with her ladyship. It has been said to be a good remedy for ladies. Peace be with thee, Lady Emily!

In order to avoid keeping certain exercises, it is customary to deposit about fifty pounds in the university chest, as a pledge that during the ensuing term you will come up and keep them;

To obtain this

in case of failing to do so, the sum is forfeited. permission I was compelled to obtain what is called a caution grace, for which purpose it is necessary to procure the signatures of a majority of the heads of colleges, that is, nine out of the seventeen. For this purpose, accompanied by my college parent, I occupied nearly the whole of a morning, besides an hour and a half in the evening, in calling at the different lodges. I might write much concerning my reception by each master; I might tell of the haughty bearishness of a Hill, the polished courtesy of a French, the gentleman like affability of a Latham, or the pleasant cordiality of an Ainsworth; but this would fill too much paper, and is not strictly connected with the matter I am describing. Suffice it to say, that by the time the nine names were procured I felt myself considerably weary, and not disposed to commence my sermon for the following Sunday, for I had yet another official discourse to deliver, but, happily for me, in my own mother tongue. I had thought much upon this sermon; I intended it to be a composition of no ordinary excellence; and when, having read it over for the third time on Saturday evening, I made my last final alterations, I confess that I felt a proper pride in my production. Being the vacation, I knew that there would be but a small congregation present; but I felt rather nervous in the anticipation. The manner of the ceremony (for ceremony it is in a great measure) is this.

On entering the vestry you are respectfully informed that your place is there. I confess I did not quite understand what this meant, till I was enlightened by being placed on a small mat just inside the door, there to stand unnoticed and apart from the various heads and professors that gradually drop in and chat carelessly round the table. A little bell tinkles, the organ swells forth, the two esquire bedells with their large silver maces of office head the procession, the vice chancellor, masters, and professors, and others that bear office in that one body, slowly follow to the gallery appropriated to their especial use (rejoicing, by the by, in the rather opposite names of "throne" and " Golgotha "), and the preacher still remains standing peacefully on his mat. But another esquire bedell now comes to him, and, preceding him down the body of the church called the pit, between rows of M.A.'s and fellow commoners, leaves him at the bottom of the round pulpit, ascending which by some internal winding stair, the preacher then reappears from its bowels in a style which has been. known in some cases to suggest to infantine minds in the aisles below the idea of that amusing and well-known toy Jack-in-thebox. In truth, that Church of St. Mary, in term time, on a Sunday afternoon, is a right noble sight. The deep side and west galleries crowded with the undergraduates, the body equally densely filled with the masters of arts, the east gallery with its

doctors and noblemen, are a sight which once seen is not easily forgotten. How different is this, thought I, to my simple church with its poorly-clad worshippers! and yet when I returned and preached on the first Sunday, I rejoiced in the difference, and would not have changed their attentive faces for all the pomp and pride of great St. Mary's.

And now, my different duties completed, nothing remained but the ceremony itself to be performed upon me; and when the day arrived it certainly appeared to me a strange performance. After a long Latin speech, read in a deeply impressive manner by the Professor of Divinity, but of which, unfortunately, through my afore-mentioned small knowledge of the language, I understood but very little, we stood round him, while he certainly treated us in the most confidential and endearing manner. Taking us each separately by the hand he bade us sit in his own seat; but this was a trying part to undergo, for, wearied with my long standing, I, to whom he addressed himself first, was so enchanted with what I thought his politeness, that most gladly did I seat myself in his well-padded velvet chair of state; scarcely, however, had I leaned back in its luxurious arms, ere he, in the same polite manner, handed me from it, and performed the tantalizing office to my companions. He then placed a velvet hat on each of our heads, then his ring on each of our fingers, and lastly, to crown his delicate attentions, he bestowed a kiss on our right cheeks.

And this was how I got "my doctor's degree." I sometimes doubt whether I am happier than I was before; but Mrs. Smith is often talking to me of the delightful change which has taken place in my condition; so I take her word, for surely she ought to know.

THE FUNERAL.

YONDER chapel on the mountain
Looks upon a vale of joy ;
There, below, by moss and fountain,
Gaily sings the herdsman's boy.

Hark! upon the breeze descending,
Sound of dirge and funeral bell;
And the boy, his song suspending,
Listens, gazing from the dell.

Homeward to the grave they're bringing
One that graced the peaceful vale;
Youthful herdsman, gaily singing!
Thus will sound thy funeral wail.

LITERATURE.

NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

Poems by a Father and a Daughter, containing Memorials of Eminent Characters and Events, Heroic and Sentimental Pieces, Religious and Moral Effusions, Dramatic Sketches, &c. THE very title of this volume possesses a touching influence, and we open its pages with an anticipating favour towards its contents; for the sentiment which it excites is not only akin to poetry, but seems to be one of the sensations of poetry itself. We have here the joint productions of parent and of child, and when the finer harmonies of mind accord with the natural sympathies of relationship, we are justified in the expectation of finding them the best harbingers of true poetry.

Under this impression have we opened this volume, and in this expectation we have not been disappointed. The work belongs to a class which the changeful and capricious fashion of the day gives us less and less hope of encountering. Grotesque and familiar imagery, and a low standard of phraseology, which, instead of elevating, tend rather to abase our intellectual faculties, have fast been superseding the scholarship and refinement of the last generation. The polished sculpture that presented to our view the majestic goddess or the graceful nymph has given place to embodied personations of all that is coarse and vulgar in the most debased and degraded haunts of society. With what pleasure, then, do we turn from these humiliating exhibitions, and abandon ourselves to the contemplation of the beautiful, which, while we gaze, seems to possess the inherent power of elevating all who are capable of admiring and comprehending.

in the volume of poems which has given rise to these reflections we have found this ample gratification. Its diversified contents are not composed of those exaggerated efforts which lead us to suspect that those who make them mistake the extravagance of insanity for the enthusiasm of genius. We have here the true impressions that certain events have left on minds of peculiar polish and refinement; the poetry is but the transfer of those impressions-a species of Daguerreotype from the spirit to the paper -smooth, harmonious, polished, yet with a vigour of thought and clearness of expression, and a perfect command of the harmony of

numbers. These are the merits of the shorter poems. They possess a grasp of comprehension, a singleness of conception, a completeness in the original idea, widely at variance with the vague wanderings and the labourings of second thought to perfect the first, which are the rocks and quicksands of less cultivated minds. These diversified pieces, full of rich variety, occupy the early portion of the volume, but are succeeded by two dramatic pieces which manifest an ability of combination, a realization of events, and a delineation of character, arguing a high and sustained power. These are full of imposing incident and tender expression. The interest is highly wrought, and some of the positions full of effect. The conflict of passions still increasing in intensity and aggravated by every succeeding event, advancing to a climax of human agony, is conceived with a courage, and expressed with a skill that betoken at once the mind and heart of a master; while the delicate touches of graceful feeling, and the ardour of self-devoting tenderness, mark that the feminine spirit has left traces of its presence. Such a combination of qualities could not fail to produce the happiest results. Pathos and passion are the finest of dramatic elements, and these appear in the first scenes and go on augmenting to the last. The polish of the diction, notwithstanding its energy, also carries with it an enhancing charm. The sentiments expressed by each individual are singularly appropriate and characteristic, truly and entirely their own; while the poetic justice of the catastrophes leaves on the mind and heart an impression of contentment and satisfaction. To add to the agreeable variety of the volume, it closes with a delightful little metrical romance from the Spanish, entitled " El Arancano," full of sweet expression; and we think that we cannot better sum up our notice than by likening it to a string of varied gems, in which each individual piece enhances the beauty and value of its neighbour by happy contrast and advantageous comparison.

Dryburgh Abbey, and other Poems. By the REV. THOMAS AGAR HOLLAND, M.A., Rector of Greatham, Hants. POETRY has her own peculiar haunts, her own especial realms and kingdoms, and among these none are more inalienab y hers than those time-honoured relics of antiquity, where, in departed ages, our forefathers made their homes, and have left sacred memories as legacies behind them. The old baronial halls and lordly castles of the land, as they fall into their venerable decay, notwithstanding dowries, heirdoms, and title-deeds, become, in the truest sense, the poet's heritage. All the vast solitudes of nature