THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.* WE saw thee, O stranger, and wept! -We look'd for the Youth of the sunny glance, But there came a voice from a distant shore -He was call'd—he is found 'midst his tribe no more! We saw thee, O stranger, and wept! He hath none by his side when the waste we track, We saw thee, O stranger, and wept! We look'd for the Chief who hath left the spear, On the wind of the forest at eve is sent; We look'd for the First-born, whose mother's cry -Where are they?-Thou 'rt seeking some distant coast,— And to watch for a step-but the step was thine! F. H. "An early traveller mentions a people on the banks of the Mississippi, who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only gone on a journey, and being in constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly amongst those foreign travellers."-PICART's Ceremonies and Religious Customs. "J'ai passé moi-même," says Chateaubriand in his Souvenirs d'Amerique, "chez une peuplade Indienne qui se prenait à pleurer à la vue d'un Voyageur, parce qu'il lui rappelait des Amis partis pour la Contrée des Ames, et depuis longtems en voyage." RBCOLLECTIONS OF ETON. MAJESTIC Windsor! Can I pass you by without a call for old acquaintance sake? Impossible. Your "distant spires" and "antique towers" positively forbid.-Time was when I invariably made it a rule with myself, in journeying from Oxford to London, to travel that road which would bring me nearest to Windsor and Eton-the scene of so many careless happy days, in the sunshine and buoyant season of youth; and now, when a lapse of years has separated me from it, when my migrations to and from the capital have run in a different direction, and broken the chain of communication I used to maintain with the cherished spot, surely I cannot, like an undutiful son, turn my back upon my foster-parent, as though I had never been a denizen of Long Chamber, never reposed under " Henry's holy shade." To forget, or be indifferent to the recollections of Eton, is a crime which can seldom or ever be laid to the charge of those who have grown up there. What Etonian was ever lukewarm in the panegyric of the scene of his boyish delights? or could ever admit the possibility of comparison between that school and any other? He can have no such thought; and would consider such an admission as unpardonable in any of Eton's genuine sons. To the latest period of existence, the grey-headed Etonian will catch a spark of lingering fire from the subject, and his eye will beam with renovated lustre in reverting to the days when he urged the flying ball," and "cleft the glassy wave," in those favourite haunts. 66 It will surely be admitted that this place has some very obvious claims to the strong attachment with which its children are inspired. Its royal origin, its venerable antiquity, the beauty of its chapel, and its agreeable situation, combine to render it an interesting object to those unconnected further than by mere inspection as visitors. But to breathe for years the atmosphere of that classic spot-to frolic in the ample bounds of those green meadows which stretch (in the schoolboy's estimation) into a boundless extent-to muse and meditate, if that gentler mood be his, under the shade at the front entrance, enjoying the delicious fragrance of the lime-trees; to do all this for successive years, is to invest the spot with such a deep-felt interest as no time can diminish, no events erase; and not to feel this interest, is to have a heart more torpid than ever belonged to a true Etonian. I know that mine beat high as I entered the place after a long interval of years. I had been there child, boy, and almost man, (that is almost in the estimation of my friends, quite in that of my own). I had lived happy, and departed with a feeling of attachment and regret, which years since past have confirmed and heightened. All my old sympathies and stronglyknit associations came rushing upon me as I drove gently round by the Christopher, and drew up under the shelter of the old limes. Here I quitted my gig to take a nearer view of every part of this scene of my juvenile adventures. Eleven o'clock school was just over; the noisy tide of boyish existence was pouring forth in large waves. The busy hum of the crowd, the high key of some voices more eager than others, the gradual dispersion of the various groups to their different sports, the bustle and animation of some, the pensive gravity of others, displayed an interesting contrast. I observed one here and there who seemed to have his gradus in hand, and was musing on the tribute of verse which the half-holiday was bound to pay, and seemed anxious to obtain a little sense from some better-furnished head. I extended my survey, and apart from all the rest I met a lad who was strolling through one of the shady lanes; he had a pale and refined countenance, in which contemplation was visible. He held a book in his hand, but his fixed eye was not intent upon it. He saw not me, nor, I dare believe, any thing else around him. His vocation was written on his brow. He was evidently wrapped in reverie, and his eye proclaimed the poet of no distant day. As I passed, I felt that kind of respect for him, which his tender age is not wont to inspire, and that interest which made me wish to pierce the veil of fate, and learn what destiny awaited him in the pleasant but perilous paths of the Muses. Poor lad! no doubt, visions of immortality already dawned on his glowing mind, and Fame appeared to his lively imagination as the certain conclusion of his career. He felt the divine spark within'twas but to kindle it to a flame-his speculations were tinged with no gloomy doubt, checked by no suspicion -"how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar." I lost sight of my young poet, who vanished into a more sequestered path, and I turned to look at the numerous band of cricket-players spread out in the spacious playing and shooting fields. I watched the occupants of the well-known spot; felt eager as the game proceeded, admired the dexterity of the block at hand, which frustrated the perilous three-quarter ball, and anticipated the success of the stroke which sent it from the full pitch to the utmost limits of the long fag's range. I followed with my eye each movement as keenly as if I had an interest in the issue, while the general buzz and confusion of sounds came over my ear like an old and favourite strain of music, every note of which, as it strikes, recalls some lively impression. All this I now contemplated as a spectator; and it was so precisely like the scenes in which I had been an actor, that it was difficult at that moment to reflect that I was myself gazed on as a stranger by those whom my imagination would have persuaded me were comrades. "Here," thought I, "is the same play performed, the change of the dramatis personæ alone makes the difference; a new master rules over a new community, but all else remains unalterably the same." I passed through the quadrangle, and regarded the satchelled king with a feeling of filial piety. I went into the vacant upper school-room; I marked the spot where I had left indelible traces of my existence in the deeply-wrought capitals which set forth my initials. I even peeped into the library; not without some odd feelings excited by the recollection of the long-forgotten smart, which has from time immemorial been dispensed in that terrific chamber, to stimulate the talent of tardy students, or to check the vagaries of too volatile genius. I took an affectionate look at that singular apartment which serves for the dormitory of so many youths. Desolate and strange-looking as it is, to the mere spectator, my heart clung to it by many a recollection of pain or pleasure, given or received within its walls. I scanned the numerous names which were engraved in all directions; and as my eye caught those of my contemporaries, what a tale did they tell of human life, what instability, what caprice of fortune! How few of those I then knew and loved best were now left to be reckoned amongst my friends! What different destinies had befallen most of us to those we had anticipated for our lot! These are, however, reflections of a certain age, and trouble not the pate of a schoolboy, who confidently expects to rule circumstances with as much facility as he does his cricket-ball, and little dreams that the current of events which will oppose his schemes of future life, and perhaps thwart all his romantic visions, will not be so easily stemmed, as he now darts his skiff with graceful ease and rapidity along the bosom of Father Thames. My spirits sunk as I retraced many of the initials inscribed by hands I had so often grasped in all the ardour of youthful affection. They were now chiefly the record of the departed! My heart bled when the stern decrees of fate occurred to me in one gloomy catalogue, though I had mourned each sad event singly; but the effect was heightened by the place in which this record is contained, so calculated to revive the long-forgotten but not lost associations which bring the early hopes of the past in strong contrast with the blasted realities of the present. Chance and change had done their work for all; and those who lived and prospered, whose condition answered to their early anticipations, whose outward circumstances remained the same, had suffered in their minds the mutability that waits on the affairs of poor humanity. In some, coldness had grown upon the once warm heart; pride, ambition, selfishness, chilled many youthful friendships which had promised eternal duration. Amongst the painful reminiscences which such a survey is likely to awaken, the latter are perhaps the most acute. When we have lost a friend in death, we feel a something of comfort in the luxury of woe. To mourn him with frequent tears is soothing to our natures. We love him more dearly, and fondly cherish his image in memory, which excludes all but what is honourable to him, and grateful to our own feelings. But how do we feel towards the man who is dead in friendship, and who has made the early buds and blossoms of our boyish anticipations and impetuous affections to wither on a fruitless stalk? We experience a pang of which the bitterness is softened by no tender regret; and if we would escape the uneasy sensations of contempt and the corroding feelings of hatred, we should hasten to bury his very image in forgetfulness. I loitered long, as if spell-bound to the spot, but at length tore myself away, and next toiled up the well-worn steps which had so often conducted me to that noblest of walks, -the Terrace of Windsor Castle, which I had been accustomed to see adorned by the truly English spectacle of a British monarch, surrounded by his fine and numerous family, mingling with his people, and apparently as happy in receiving their lively expressions of interest and respect as they were in paying them. The countenance of the benevolent monarch is indelibly engraved in my recollection-bland, courteous, free, beaming with affability and goodnature; to behold him on that terrace, to mark his paternal manners, both to his children and his subjects, to watch his smile of welcome, his word of encouragement, his whole demeanour in these moments of social intercourse with those over whom he ruled, to see him thus, was to be his, heart and hand, for life; and so I believe were all true Etonians: nor was his known partiality for them likely to lessen our regard for the man, or our respect for the monarch. I could not but dwell on these past and bright days as I drew, some what tardily, one leg up after the other, till I had surmounted the hundredth step, and had ample time to accompany each with a reflection on the different agility of youth and middle age. But at length I reached the top, and approached the Terrace, my pulses beating quicker, both with the exertion and the recollections which danced within me, when to my no small dismay I was suddenly encountered by a grim-visaged sentinel, who sternly forbade my entrance to the favourite scene of my past days. I have a natural horror at the sight of a red coat and musket, when dressed in a little brief authority, especially when accompanied by the terrific frown with which this man enforced his prohibition. At length, however, I extorted from him a surly permission to take a brief view of those haunts I used to consider almost as my own. There were the Towers indeed, and there was the Terrace, unchanged, and towering in their might. There was the beauteous view stretching over the winding course of Thames, the Chapel of Eton with its light turrets, and the whole expanse of meadow, green islet, wavy willow, and gliding skiff; but the illusion was broken, the whole changed by the consciousness of the constraint under which I was surveying it; and I took a cold and comfortless view of those scenes which I had never till now beheld without delight; for I saw the sour-faced guardian of the walk minuting the duration of my pleasure, and this entirely abated its zest. I sighed to witness the solitude of this once populous spot, and retreated with feelings of bitter regret at the dreary contrast it now afforded me, making my way to the other side of the Castle. Here the Genius of Change was revelling in the plenitude of his power. I saw the magnificent old entrance to the state apartments destined to be thrown down, and I deprecated the violence which this truly English seat of Royalty is about to suffer! The new entrance indeed, on one account, promises to do honour to the taste of its projector. To connect the approach to the Castle with that noble avenue of trees forming the Long Walk, which has hitherto stood entirely disjoined, is an object well worthy of considerable expenditure. Without altering the character of the building, it adds greatly to its effect. But every feeling of reverence and romance revolts at the idea of interference with the old Round Tower; that time-honoured fabric, which is interwoven with so many recollections, flattering to the pride, and interesting to the feelings of Englishmen. This relic of antiquity has found a new kind of immortality, so charmingly crayoned in the page of a trans-atlantic writer, who has contributed to adorn the literature of our common language. All who have visited this old tower, or who know it through the medium of the "Sketch Book," must grieve to think of a single stone being removed. No alteration can improve what we admire chiefly because it has stood unchanged through the lapse of ages. To the eye of critical taste the changes proposed in this and in other parts of the building may appear judicious. The new structure may be better, it may be worse, the skill of the architect may perpetuate his memory, as it has already lengthened his name, but it will no longer be the Castle of my younger days; I shall cease to associate with it the recollection of those great names that erected and inhabited it, from Edward the Confessor, (for I willingly admit even a * From Wyatt to Wyattville |