THE LADY MARGARET 5TH BOAT, MAY 1863.

EIGHT B.A.'s stout from town came out M.A. degrees to take,
And made a vow from stroke to bow a bump or two to make.
Weary were they and jaded with the din of London town,
And they felt a tender longing for their long-lost Cap and Gown.
So they sought the old Loganus: well pleased I trow was he,
The manly forms he knew so well once more again to see:
And they cried-"O old Loganus, can'st thou find us e'er
a boat,

In which our heavy carcases may o'er the waters float?”
Then laughed aloud Loganus-a bitter jest lov'd he—
And he cried "Such heavy mariners I ne'er before did see;
I have a fast commodious barge, drawn by a well-fed steed,
'Twill scarcely bear your weight I fear: for never have I see'd
Eight men so stout wish to go out a rowing in a 'height.'
Why, Gentlemen, a man of war would sink beneath your weight."
Thus spake the old Loganus, and he laughed long and loud,
And when the eight men heard his words, they stood abashed
and cowed;

For they knew not that he loved them, and that, sharply tho'

he spoke,

The old man loved them kindly, tho' he also loved his joke:

For Loganus is a Trojan, and tho' hoary be his head,

He loveth Margareta, and the ancient Johnian red.

So he brought them out an eight-oar'd tub, and oars both light and strong,

And bade them be courageous, and row their ship along.

Then in jumped Casa Minor, the Captain of our crew,
And the gallant son of Fergus in a 'blazer' bright and new:
And Θωμᾶς ὁ Κυλίνδων full proudly grasped his oar,

And 'Idowv ó Xaλkoupyos, who weighs enough for "four;"

For if Jason and Medea had sailed with him for cargo,

To the bottom of the Euxine would have sunk the good ship Argo.

Then Pallidulus Bargæus, the mightiest of our crew,

Than whom no better oarsman e'er wore the Cambridge blue.

And at number six sat Peter, whom Putney's waters know;
Number seven was young Josephus, the ever-sleepless Joe:
Number eight was John Piscator, at his oar a wondrous dab,
Who, tho' all his life a fisher, yet has never caught a crab:
Last of all the martial Modius, having laid his good sword by,
Seized the rudder-strings, and uttered an invigorating cry:
"Are you ready all? Row Two, a stroke! Eyes front, and
sit at ease!

Quick March! I meant to say, Row on! and mind the time all, please."

Then sped the gallant vessel, like an arrow from a bow;

And the men stood wond'ring on the banks, to see the "Old'uns" row;

And Father Camus raised his head, and smiled upon the crew, For their swing, and time, and feather, and their forms, full well he knew.

They rowed past Barnwell's silvery pool, past Charon's gloomy bark,

And nearly came to grief beneath the Railway rafters dark:

But down the willow-fringed Long Reach so fearful was their pace,
That joyous was each Johnian, and pale each foeman's face.
They rowed round Ditton corner, and past the pleasant Plough,
Nor listened to the wild appeal for beer that came from bow:
They rounded Grassy Corner, and its fairy forms divine,
But from the boat there wandered not an eye of all the nine:
They rowed round First-Post Corner, the Little Bridge they
passed;

And calmly took their station two places from the last.

Off went the gun! with one accord the sluggish Cam they smote, And were bumped in fifty seconds by the Second Jesus Boat.

TURGIDUS DEMEX.

+

TWO PICTURES.

("Home," and "The Silver Cord Loosed.")*

THAT the same hand should have given us "The Pursuit of Pleasure," Hesperus," "Home," and "In Memoriam," will not appear strange to those who love to watch the ripening of an artist's mind, and see the subjects of his paintings, or his poems, ever deepening in human interest, howsoever graceful and fantastic were his earlier dreams. J. Noel Paton, whose "Oberon and Titania" secured popular favour at the Crystal Palace Exhibition, 1851, and whose "Pursuit of Pleasure was in later years an object of attraction to many thousand spectators, touched the heart of the nation when he painted "Home,-the Soldier's return." The yearning tenderness and grace of "Hesperus" leads us into a different world of thought, and appeals to a smaller circle of sympathy than the broad human interest of the "Soldier's Return from the War." Too many were wrung with agony for the sufferings of beloved relatives, wounded and slain in the Russian campaign, to allow this noble picture to be received with indifference. Even in times of continued peace it would have spoken to all by its simple earnestness, but it was doubly impressive when it harmonised with recent recollections. The "In Memoriam "-an episode in the Sepoy insurrection, although impressive and admirable as a work of art, was less suited to be a favourite, from the painful nature of the subject.

"Home," also, tells the story of bygone danger and present joy. In its quiet tenderness and pathos it is austerely true to nature. It is a cottage interior, glowing in the firelight, and again evening. Newly returned, a wounded soldier is seated once more at his own hearth, wearied and faint with past suffering, and encircled by the arms of his young wife, who kneels before him, pressing her cheek

A note on page 315.

against his breast. Pale, and with closed eyes she leans there silently, the tear stealing down her face, her lips parted, almost swooning from excess of joy and grief,-joy that he is saved, mingling with the agony of knowing him to be thus mutilated and feeble. His aged mother bends over him, hiding her face on his shoulder. The baby in its cradle sleeps unconscious of what passes; a solemn calm reigns throughout. In mournful tenderness the soldier enfolds his wife with his only arm. Thin and pallid, although bronzed by a foreign sun, his face tells of sufferings; languor and gentleness are visible, yet the brow records courage and indomitable energy into the past. How often and how longingly, by the watchfire in the trenches, on his pallet in the hospital, and on the voyage home, has he yearned for this moment. His garments are tattered and dusty: his shoes shattered with long marches; the armless sleeve of his coat, fastened to the breast that is decorated with medals; the Russian helmet, brought as a trophy to please her who welcomes him; all these assist to tell the story of his journey home, and of hastening before recovery of strength to seek the mother and the wife who long have prayed for him, and to gaze on the infant that has seen the light since he had left them for the war.

By innumerable touches, graceful and unobtrusive, we are admitted to knowledge of what quiet life was led by that soldier's family while he was far away. We see this in the simple neatness of their attire, in the cleanliness and order of the cottage furniture, the snow-white hangings of the bed, the clock ticking monotonously, the open Bible with the aged woman's spectacles, as she had hastily laid them down, when his long-absent tread was heard at the door; the fishing-rod and violin near the old cabinet, revealing days of early comfort; the little needle-box filled with all his letters from abroad, treasured and often re-perused, till every word has been learnt by heart; the sewing-work hurriedly flung aside, the infant in its sweet healthy sleep, unmindful of past anxiety and present rapture. The cheerful blaze of firelight is on the wearied man, as if in welcome; and the distant church among the trees-seen through the window, where blooms the solitary flower which he planted long, long ago, -is now silvered by the evening twilight, that falls like a benediction on the Soldier's Home.

Such a picture, fitted to adorn all dwellings, aids to sanctify our daily work. What is before our eyes in the hours of leisure and meditation, of social kindness and of family

affection, should be worthy of our best regard. This painting of "Home," and the masterly engraving from it also, is nearly as perfect in execution as it is lovely in conception. There is a holiness in its tender beauty. With the exception of one early picture, of the Saviour bearing the Cross, J. Noel Paton has abstained from that most difficult walk of art, in which so few modern Painters escape failurethe illustration of Scripture. Irreverence too often prompts to these rash attempts.

But whatever he selects for subject, the work bears indication of a pure and aspiring nature; whether the gambols of the fairies who haunt the moonlit glade, the meeting of lovers, the mingling of chivalric daring and impassioned affection, or the anguish and religious faith of our own day. In daintiest imagery of works that held a tendency to allegory, with most minute attention to details, on which he conscientiously bestowed his patient labour, he never failed to shew true poetic nature. Ideal art has found in him an unflagging son of toil. His industry has been remarkable, and few men have united so many rich qualities of genius. A cold and repelling style of colouring was one of his few defects, but he has almost conquered this crudeness by incessant study and practice. Even now, however, there is too little resemblance to flesh in some of his figures, which have, at times, the pallor of wax and the hardness of ivory. He has attained peculiar impressiveness with the deathly aspect of the dying or the dead, or of those labouring under intense emotion. His tendency towards the lurid and evanescent hues of twilight, seems to have assisted in fastening on his works an occasional ghastliness. In his drawing he is almost faultless, to the minutest detail of anatomy, costume and ornament, whilst the natural beauty of the forest, and the brake or field, he has pourtrayed with graceful fidelity. Already he has shewn a worthy commencement of an artist's career, a poet's life so far as aim and work can make it, and we cherish the thought that all his successes in the past, are little compared to what he may yet achieve in his new field of usefulness.

"Love has he found in huts where poor men lie,

His daily teachers have been woods and rills;
The silence that is in the starry sky,

The sleep that is among the lonely hills."

Yet the cheerfulness of spirit that pervaded his earlier pictures, has been of late years toned into something more sad and mournful. To his eyes which see beauty every