An EPISTLE from the QLD ARM CHAIR in the SCHOOL Rooм, to Kenyon, Esq.

DEAR MR. KENYON,

No doubt you will be astonished (and not without reason) at receiving a letter from an "Arm Chair;" but a "Peg-top" has written its adventure—a "Guinea" has done the same; so has a "Pin;" then why should not I? Am I more despicable than these? Certainly not. I acknowledge my chief inducement to address you, was to complain of my grievances, which, as I intend you should hear, forthwith I will begin my history, from my earliest entrance into the world.

I was fabricated by a skilful constructor of my species, about a dozen years ago; but, as arm chairs do not keep family bibles, or their birth days, neither are their names entered in the register, I really cannot tell you the exact day of my nativity; but, at all events, since that time, various have been the services I have rendered, and unfeeling the usage I have sustained indeed, several changes have taken place during my existence.

:

Start not, gentle reader, at seeing me quote Latin, for I am as conversant with the classics, as a cook is with her rolling-pin-as a stage-coachman with the reins, -or a tailor with the shears. I should be the verriest dolt imaginable, were I not imbued with classic lore; for have I not daily heard my rightful master explain many a difficult speech in Thucydides, or passage in Cicero? have I not heard many a page of Euripides construed by his pupils, and many a time witnessed his hearty laugh over the Satires of Juvenal, or Horace?

But it is not of him that I now complain: he has always behaved kindly, and even respectfully towards me : No! Of the school-boys I complain, by whom I have been so often maltreated; by whom I have been thrown and beat about just as if I had no feeling. I have, at different times, had two new arms, three new legs, and a new back. I can assure you there is hardly an atom of my original remaining. Once I underwent the indignity of having one of the above-mentioned arms wrenched off, by an unfeeling vagabond, to make himself a club. I can remember having heard his name mentioned, but, upon the honor of a chair, it has slipped my remembrance, or I should have entreated you to resent it in a becoming manner. Now, my opinion is, that your schoolfellows ought to show more respect to one, who has already rendered, and still will render, multifarious services. On me, when the snow drives, and the winter winds are cold, many a one has sat before a blazing fire, and enjoyed the cheerful warmth. On me, at the approach of the Christmas holidays, has many a joyful school-boy inharmoniously screeched out the "Dulce Domum.' On me, the Sunday fop, (after having carefully wiped down my pulverulent superficies) has sat, admiring his foot, which is tightly pinched in a new Wellington; and, as Euripides expresses it, on a somewhat similar occasion,

πολλακις

τενον ες ορθον ομμασι σκοπέμενος.

On me, when

"Solvitur acris hyems grata vice veris,"

the book-worm has carefully perused the inestimable gems of poetry. But, Sir, I have very often seen a small duodecimo blue covered book, which I have heard called the " Horæ Sarisburienses," and I understand it is written by some of your schoolfellows. Various have been the opinions concerning this work. The surly and illiterate have declared that it was great

nonsense, and not worth perusal; whilst others, who have been more kindly disposed, have considered that it reflects credit on the members of a private school. I have often caught the names of Seymour, Charles Dashwood, and Wentworth, conjointly with your's, as contributors to this work. By-the-bye, I can remember, about two months ago, a boy, by name Archibald Mytton, flinging himself down, without mercy, upon me, with pencil and paper in his hands, to write most furiously. Many a time have the merits of the "Etonian," and the "Eton Miscellany," been canvassed, and often has the name of "Peregrine Courtenay," and " Bartholomew Bouverie" (who, I understood, are the conductors of the above-mentioned works) reached my ears. One day, I can remember hearing a boy, called “Darlington," very vehemently defend the "Eton Miscellany" against some who have been inclined to abuse it. The Etonian" was unanimously praised. I have, moreover, often borne the weight of the tried cricketer or pedestrian, after a long walk. On one occasion, they were determined to make use of me, to chair a schoolfellow of long standing, who was about to leave school; but, as he was averse to the proceedings, I was spared that disagreeable office, for I am sure I should not have escaped sundry damages from their inexperienced hands.

I could relate a thousand other purposes for which I have been used, and enumerate twice as many indignities I have suffered, but as I already hear you exclaim

"Cur me querelis exanimas tuis,"

I shall conclude, by entreating you to exhort your schoolfellows to use me better in future.

I am, dear Sir,

Your's respectfully,

"MAGISTRI SELLA."

I here inform the unlearned, and those of the fair sex who are not blues, that the meaning of those two Latin words, is

"The chair of a master."

E'EN BLISS-'TWERE WOE ALONE

TO BEAR.

GIAOUR.

Oh Mytton! fie upon thee, Mytton!
Thou art nor lover, man, nor Briton!
Thou sing of love! thou dastard elf,
If love thou know'st, 'tis love of self.
Dastard, again! thy title's clear,
And though, on woman, thus severe,
Thou deem'st thee safe from all alarms;
Thy safety that they use not arms.
Mistaken dotard, not to know
All, who are men, pronounce thee foe.
Thou art some churl, morose, unkind,
Of envious, cross, distrustful mind;
To thy chill, ice-encircled heart,
Nature could feeling ne'er impart:
Within thy cold, unkindly breast,
The God of Love ne'er deign'd to rest,
But from thy cot indignant flew,
And left thee his contempt to rue.

Or, if not this, some grov'ling swain,
Without a hope, not lov'd again;
Or one, perhaps, on whom awhile
Beam'd woman's all-bewitching smile,
With ray so clear, and gleam so bright,
Thou could'st not bear the magic light.
Or one, whose vicious heart was fraught
With treach'rous and unhallow'd thought;
And, proof itself, 'gainst inward pain,

Dar'd love's pure name with vice to stain;
Who thus, from woman's love wast hurl'd
The scoff-the bye-word of the world.
'Tis this, and this alone that dips
In gall thy pen, and arms thy lips,
(Lips sure that ne'er on woman's hung,)
With venom which infects thy tongue.

Mytton, go to-thy ev'ry line
Assures us love was never thine.

Had I a thousand tongues, how weak
A thousand tongues would be to speak
The charms, the bliss, the extasy
That hourly spring, sweet Love, from thee!
Nor had I dar'd my weak essay

To tell thy praise in humble lay,
Had not pale envy done thee wrong,
And falsehood prompted Mytton's song;
As thus I sing, may'st thou inspire
In ev'ry thought poetic fire.

Grateful, we hail, all-sacred Love,
Thy blest descent from realms above;
To man, by his Creator giv'n

To raise his thoughts the nearest heav'n :
Compass'd by sorrow as by strife,
Amidst the toils and woes of life,
To bid his angry passions rest,

And drive the savage from his breast:
For passions would, with headlong force,
Pursue their torrent, whelming course,
And leave man tyrant, lawless, wild,
With ev'ry impious crime defil'd,
Didst thou not, Love, with magic charm
Of all that's fierce his soul disarm,
And bring him on the bending knee
To honor, serve, and worship thee.
Thou com'st to curb his strong desire;
To cool his rash, impetuous fire;
To tame his else unconquer'd rage;
His ev'ry impulse to assuage;
To fill his vast, immortal mind
With stores of virtue, pure, refin'd;
Thus to enrich his life's short span,
And crown with worth the name of man.

Yes, love it is, whose mystic pow'r To mortals brings that sacred hour,