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supererogatory merits of the Saints in the Romish Church, which the Pope keeps in his storehouse till there is a demand for them in the retail line, to supply those purchasers who have a long score to make up in Purgatory. Jenkyns, I presume, has taken up the system, and intends to make the superabundant merits of his forefathers supply all deficiencies of his own. What is it to us, though Humphrey Wasney, his maternal grandfather, who flourished in the reign of Queen Anne (peace be with him!) was publicly complimented by Pope for his literary talents, if this descendant of his would never have been noticed by that great man, unless it had been, perhaps, in the Dunciad? I have no reason to doubt but that Matthew Honisberg Jenkyns was a Member of considerable weight in the Long Parliament; we are only angry that Philip Wasney Jenkyns would hardly do credit to the one nick-named the "Barebone." Away, then, with all the undue advantages of a splendid genealogy, and let us examine the naked self of this simple one, and I fear we shall find him but a compound of vanity and ignorance. The seeds of the former failing were sown in early boyhood by the hand of a fond father. It is not worth while to draw up in long array the various indulgences or unkind kindnesses, which are the usual symptoms of the system called spoiling a child: they are the same in all climes and stations of life. One instance, however, deserves marked notice. Young Philip, who had been suffered to amuse himself with the most desultory and heterogeneous reading-novels, Spanish romances, and the bloody tragedies of the age immediately before the appearance of Shakspeare, the precious stock of the old family library-one day took it into his head, not indeed to turn Poet, but to write verses, i. e. certain articles of rhyme and syntax. The event was soon blazed over the neighbourhood. The sanguine spirit of the old gentleman foresaw nothing but laurels and University rostra for the promising boy; and, whenever there was company to dinner, he took care that there should also be a recitation by Master Philip during dessert. Then, too, mamma's morning calls upon the neighbouring families afforded a happy opportunity for the display of her son's talents, and these precious morceaux of literature were the constant ornament
of her reticule; ready, on all occasions, to make their appearance to advantage, after the recommendatory harangue of their partial chaperon. What wonder, then, that Jenkyns has proved the most conceited youth at Eton? Conceit, however, is generally a harmless quality, and merely excites the contempt, or, sometimes, the pity of others towards its unfortunate victim. But Jenkyns has contrived to humour his favourite passion, by making the most unjustifiable encroachment upon the liberty of the subject ever despot did. There is a good story told of some Italian Monk, who summoned the fishes of the sea to attend his preaching, and we are gravely informed (vide Addison's Tour) "that they did come when he did call them." The account farther informs us, that in token of the eloquence of the Ecclesiastic having had a due influence on his audience, the mute creatures bowed their heads, in profound reverence, three times, ere they dispersed homewards to their crystal habitations. In this manner Mr. J. collects together a crew of unhappy dependents, or interested elves-fifth form, who have an eye to the loaves and fishes their complaisance will procure them, and lower boys, who dare not for their ears offend the consequential dignity of a sextile; and woe to them if they do not melt in rhapsodies at the divine effusions of the recitator. It may not be generally known to my readers that it is customary for our candidates to give in certain proofs of qualification, whereby an opinion may be formed of their respective merits. I shall, therefore, subjoin a sample of prose and poetry from the pen of Mr. P. W. J. and thus rid my hands of any further disquisition. The public may then judge for themselves :
ON POCKET HANDKERCHIEFS.
"Of all those little agrémens, without which our manners want all the polish which gives the stamp of high life, none is so indispensably necessary as a proper style of blowing the nose. Heroes may conquer, orators may rant, philosophers may dispute; but they must study something else into the bargain. Fame should never blow the trumpet for one who cannot blow his nose.
Precept is never so profitable as example. This is a truth which has been often inculcated. Horace says, 66 my father took care-ut fugerem exemplis vitiorum quæque notando," and a little afterwards, "teneros animos aliena opprobria sæpe absterrent vitiis."—I will therefore proceed to exemplify.
"You should not blow your nose like
Here the author grows satirical, and I will therefore proceed to his Poetry :
THE DEATH OF CHATHAM.
"Chatham alive, Britain still hoped to see
The jarring lands enjoy sweet unity;
Heaven would no longer spare him here below,
Like the glorious Sun sinking to the main,
And she is left to struggle with her fate!
When he cou'd no more, the Patriot cried,
Oh Camden! save my Country!--and died!!!!
There being no more business before the Club, it immediately adjourned.
[Since the character of our unfortunate Candidate was sent to the Printing-office, I have been much vexed at hearing that the above lines, which have been handed about as the chef d'autre of Mr. JENKYNS, are actually copied from
a "Descriptive Poem of the River Tees, its Towns, and Antiquities, by ANNE WILSON, printed for the Author, 1778." This is abominable. He would have been a dangerous subject to the King of Clubs. He was rejected, however, by a most appalling number of the literæ damnatoria, commonly termed black balls.]
ON THE TOMB OF PSAMMIS.
"Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
NOTHING is more calculated to turn our mind towards meditation, and to awaken our feelings, than visiting sepulchral monuments. Indeed among those persons who have seen the tomb of some distinguished character, (and from the multiplicity of these monuments a great portion of mankind have done so) almost every one must have been led to meditate upon the striking scene before them; many have committed their thoughts to writing, and a few have by so doing gained the admiration of mankind, adorned the literature of their country, and instructed and amused posterity. On such a beaten path I should not have ventured, had I not been led into it by visiting the representation of an Egyptian Tomb, discovered by that enterprising and persevering traveller Belzoni; where many feelings and reflections crowded upon my mind, very different from those which commonly occur on meditating over the remains of the mighty dead. When we behold the tomb of some well-known character or favourite hero, we fancy that we are witnessing the defeat of time; there are the mouldering ruins of a mausoleum-the defaced inscription-the mutilated bust. So far he is triumphant, and,
as we vainly imagine, all has been done, which rests in his power to accomplish.. We are conscious that had he, who raised this tomb for himself, relied for immortality merely upon that fabric, whose ruins are now mingling with the dust of its inhabitant, he would have been disappointed, and we exclaim with the Poet,
"Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops."
Yet we say again, that is not the case here: the history of the man whose bones lie beneath is familiar to us; his deeds, his writings, or his discoveries, excite the wonder, praise, and admiration of posterity; they have defied the attacks of time, to which nought belonging to him, save the brick and mortar of his sepulchre, have yielded. His actions have been his monument; his epitaph ́is written in the page of history.-Such are our feelings, when we behold the tomb of Alexander the Great.* His dust has long ago been scattered by the winds. His sarcophagus, torn from the sepulchre, subjected to domestic uses, at last transported into a land almost unknown, and totally barbarous, when the mighty conqueror flourished in the zenith of power and victory.
"Unus Pellæo juveni non sufficit orbis,
Ut Gyara clausus scopulis, parvâque Seripho,
"One world suffic'd not Alexander's mind,
* Brought from Alexandria, where it had been used by the Turks as
a bath, and now in the British Museum.