In the last New Monthly Magazine is an excellent account of this splendid structure, in A Day at Cambridge,—in which occurs the following exquisite little descriptive gem:—

With the exception of a gravel walk, running near to the buildings on every side, the whole ground-plot of this quadrangle is covered by an unbroken turf, kept, by means of constant and almost hourly attention, in that exquisite order which is only to be observed in spots devoted to similar purposes, here and at Oxford. The effect of an unbroken plot of turf of this kind and quality, and in a situation like this, is perfectly unique, and perhaps indescribable. It is supposed to be, and in fact is, for all purposes of preservation and beauty, sacred from the foot of man or beast; and the feeling arising from this circumstance, added to the exquisite natural adaptation of the object itself to the purposes of rest and relief from the almost dazzling architectural splendour of the surrounding objects, is such as cannot be communicated by any other means whatever, and we might in vain attempt to describe. It is of such a kind, however, that those who are capable of experiencing it, would as soon think of treading upon the object that conveys it to them, as those who honour Nature would think of rooting up a nest of violets. Speaking for ourselves alone, there is but one thing that can disturb and deteriorate the absolute tranquillity of mind, and peace of heart, which fall upon us, like dew from heaven, on entering a place like that we have attempted to describe above; it is, to see a capped and gowned Fellow, profaning with his footsteps the floor of that, in some sort, sacred temple, merely because he can, by so doing, reach his habitation by a few footsteps less than if he kept to the path allotted for him. We look upon the act as a species of impiety; to say nothing of its proving, to a demonstration, that the person who commits it is either utterly insensible to the mysterious harmony that subsists between a certain class of natural objects and the heart of man; or utterly disregards that harmony, and sets it at naught. He is, in fact, one of whom it may in one sense be said, that

"He hath no music in his soul."

And we are almost tempted to complete the quotation, by adding—

"Let no such man be trusted!"

A RUSTIC PAIR

By Miss Mitford

Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were less pretty that Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, thin in face, sharp in feature, with a muddled complexion, wild sun-burnt hair, and eyes, whose very brightness had in them something startling, over-informed, super-subtle, too clever for her age. At twelve years old she had quite the air of a little old fairy. Now, at seventeen, matters are mended. Her complexion has cleared; her countenance, her figure, has shot up into height and brightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye is softened and sweetened by the womanly wish to please; her hair is trimmed, and curled, and brushed with exquisite neatness; and her whole dress arranged with that nice attention to the becoming, the suitable both in form and texture, which would be called the highest degree of coquetry, if it did not deserve the better name of propriety. Never was such a transmogrification beheld. The lass is really pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that she is so. There he stands, the rogue, close at her aide, (for he hath joined her whilst we have been telling her little story, and the milking is over!)—there he stands—holding her milk-pail in one hand, and stroking Watch with the other; whilst she is returning the compliment, by patting Neptune's magnificent head. There they stand, as much like lovers as may be; he smiling, and she blushing—he never looking so handsome, nor she so pretty, in all their lives. There they stand, in blessed forgetfulness of all except each other—as happy a couple as ever trod the earth. There they stand, and one would not disturb them for all the milk and butter in Christendom. I should not wonder if they were fixing the wedding-day.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A R*T

(Concluded from page 365.)

Finding a detachment just setting out to join the Grand Allied Army, I thought, as a true Briton, I could do no less than accompany it, and prevailed upon all our party to do the same.

The detachment with which I marched, consisted of 80,000. As we had little baggage, having crossed the Rhine, we proceeded rapidly through a dull, uninteresting country.

The town of Coblentz is situated at the junction of the Rhine and the Moselle. Here the majestic Rhine gently flows along in all its grandeur, separating the town from the noble fortress of Ehrenbreitstein.6 I crossed over the bridge of boats, and made a most minute inspection of this very romantic castle, which gave me great pleasure indeed. In a few days I availed myself of a passage-boat which was going to Mayence, and was quite enraptured with the view on all sides. Rhenish wines, and perhaps also the water, I found did not well agree with my stomach; and no inconsiderable annoyance, I soon experienced. They seemed, however, to have exactly the same effect upon every Englishman I saw, so I was not singular. A little brandy soon, however, put me all to rights; and by the time I reached Strasbourg, I was perfectly well again, and able to do ample justice to her Splendid Pies! I attended high mass in the great Cathedral of Strasbourg, and was surprised and pleased at the sight of 10,000 soldiers, in review order, drawn up within its walls. It was tiresome enough work mounting to the top of the spire, (which I ascertained, by the steps I took, to be exactly 490 feet high, Strasbourg measure; and this is exactly eight feet higher than St. Peter's at Rome), but I made it out, notwithstanding the sulky looks of the jackanapes who lives at the top. Nothing can surpass the beauty of the view from this cathedral. At your feet you have the ancient town, with all its regular fortifications and outworks—the majestic Rhine, with its bridge of boats, and ruined Gothic bridge, sublime in its decay—and as far as the eye can reach you have an exceedingly rich country, everywhere speckled with towns, and fertilized by luxuriant streams.

I made a point of visiting my venerable friend, the old Comte de Strasbourg, who, unchanged in the rolling on of centuries, lies in his glass coffin, to all appearance in the same freshness of health and vigour in which, when myself a very young man, I saw him many hundred years ago;7 his countess, his son, and his daughter, keep him company, each in their separate place of repose. Alas, alas! the sight made me weep.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 345, December 6, 1828

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SPIRIT OF THE Public Journals

QUADRANGLE OF KING'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

A RUSTIC PAIR

By Miss Mitford

RECOLLECTIONS OF A R*T

(Concluded from page 365.)

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