stumble and fall. All these fears are plainly written on his countenance, as he stands for a whole dance with his arm round his partner's waist and one foot extended to begin; or commences a series of half-circles or other fragmentary figures, like some ambitious bird in the rudiments of flying, with, in either case, the monotonous "one, two, three; one, two, three" of musical anxiety continually on his lips.

But this must be our last waltz, at least for the present; the lights grow duil, the guests look sleepy, the musicians wax faint, the clocks are striking small hours, the ball room begins to thin, and we must be off before the country-dance. Some few of our acquaintance still remain, the Fashionable Waltzer, with his graceful step, distingué air, and long preliminary walk; his copy, the Affected; and his horror, the Awkward Waltzer, have not yet departed, and with them we may on some future occasion re-open our festivities, till when

ADIEU.

"No Student is to be allowed to take the mark of L., or Little Progress, in his third term, in any of the Oriental subjects."

REGULATIONS, Chapter 1000, Sec. 41, Clause 23.

The long vacation's end drew near,

A whisper came, a voice of fear :
I heard and laughed, I knew too well,
We always took our third term L.

But laughter soon was changed to doubt,
Each day a worse report came out;
My Di. in secret said, "Don't tell,
The third term aren't to take an L."
But now 'tis past-the worst is o'er,
We only fear-we hope no more;
The dire decree rang forth our knell,-
"The third term must not take an L."

Where now are all the idle hours

We dreamt of, fondly thought were ours?
The lectures which we hoped to sell?
Proud of our Oriental L.

O happy days! O happy men!

Who knew the joys we seek in vain!
Who knew, who tried the potent spell,

The charm that bound the third term L.

For you, at least one lecture free!
For you one hour of liberty!

For us-new toil, new cares, to swell

Our vain attempts to save our L.

But retribution's day will shew

How just our grief,-our unheard woe;
And European Plucks will tell,
The value of a third term L.

VATES.

ST. AUSTIN AND SON, PRINTERS, HERTFORD,

In this season of the year, a fortnight can make great changes. When we were last engaged in the pleasant duty of ushering into light our Magazine, summer was still flourishing in its most luxurious shape, boldly resisting, for a time, the strong attacks of autumn. Then was the season for gentle saunterings at eventide, beside the hedgerows; then was the season for wandering in the wild paths of the woods, grateful for their foliage and their shade; then was the season for lying at ease upon the cool grass, with some loved book to wile the hour. But, now, all that is past. The sighing winds, that fitfully moan among the tree tops; the drifting leaves that begin too truthfully to tell the year's decay; the long grass still wet with rain, whose dampness the sun's feeble influence cannot dispel; all combine to impress the unwilling conviction that we must soon desert our out-door haunts, and confine ourselves more to our snug fire-sides, and comfortably curtained chambers. Instead of the evening stroll, we now roll ourselves up in some easy chair, and watching the gleaming pictures in a bright coal fire, dream over all our hopes of future years; and many a happy scene, and many a long-past hour flits

NO. II.-VOL. III.

E

o'er our memories then; and, perchance, as we dream in waking of meeting with well-loved friends, or while hope is weaving her brightest picture for us, we gradually merge into that

And then we wake, shivering, to hear the summons of the chapel bell and through the pattering rain, cross with hurried steps, the dark and cold quadrangle.

It is at this time of the year that our little OBSERVER becomes of most importance; serving, perchance, to wile the hour of some ennuyè reader, but more valuable still in affording the youthful author a vehicle for his thoughts, in offering him an opportunity of passing, not unprofitably, some idle hours, in writing for its pages.

The temporary pause that lately occurred in its successful career has been alluded to, but not explained by us. There was at the time no lack of ability in the college to support or even raise its standard of excellence, it was from no want of power it fell, but from a want of will. Between the exciting influences of the oar and the bat, the more gentle taste for literary pursuits was crushed, and hardly could the OBSERVER stand against the mania that then existed for more stirring and manly, but therefore not more noble, distinction. The lovers of boating and cricket can now, however, find few chances of encouraging their tastes, and certainly cannot bring forward the engrossing temper of these pursuits, as an excuse for their lukewarmness in the cause of our Magazine. We trust that that lukewarmness will now cease; we trust that all will afford, to us a helping hand; that all, without distinction, will use their best endeavours to bring to a prosperous termination the new series we have just begun. With fears, and with hesitation did we launch our tender firstling in the air, ourselves unused to such a task, and but feebly assisted by succour from without; but yet we persevered. Encouraged by the praises that met our enterprize, we still push on, and hope that all who lauded the first flight of our eaglet, will nourish it in its weak hours of infancy, till its well-plumed form, and strength of pinion, ensure it a safe career.

And now will our readers pardon us if we dwell upon a subject little interesting indeed to most of them, but important to those who enrol themselves also in the list of our contributors? It has long been a subject of complaint that editors looked not at the worth of the contribution, but merely at the name of the author, and according as he happened to be among the favoured number of their friends, or had not that honour, so was judgment passed upon his production. We will not stop to debate upon the correctness of this statement in former times; we will merely declare that we intend to stop any such suspicion against

our decisions, by refusing to receive any articles, except through the medium of the Editor's box. We shall thus be ignorant of the names of our correspondents, and then no bias can be supposed to guide us in our choice,no rejected addresser, though he may impugn our capability, can cavil at our fairness in judgment.

When any contribution has passed through the ordeal, when, unknown, it has obtained the stamp of approbation, then we are sure no author would possess the extreme modesty to wish still to remain concealed; our own security from the chance of admitting stale, un-original productions alone demands this concession, for though we would willingly trust ourselves to the proper feeling of our associates, yet we are sorry to say, we dare not do so, when we remember that last term in spite of all precautions an article appeared, the doubts concerning the originality of which could never well be satisfied. We fear our readers have already been exclaiming "Something too much of this;" yet we cannot dismiss our lecturings without adding one word of advice to those who wish to become assistants in our work; we know how much of this has already been given them, and perhaps nothing is easier to give; yet we would add one hint to all the previous stores, we would tell them what few seem able to credit, that locality is no recommendation; we look not much to the subject, our choice is made by the intrinsic worth alone of every article. Our college has been often described, perhaps sometimes in an exaggerated spirit; little remains now to afford grounds for new description, and assuredly no one would desire to paint our state in colours worse than the reality; and yet to this must those resort, who would strive to excite a smile, or afford any amusement upon these old and scanty materials.

But we must hasten to conclude this long prologue, and admit our readers at last to the play itself. We cannot, however, withdraw finally into silence and shade, without again exhorting all to exert their best powers for the furtherance of our design. There are but two causes which can produce our downfall,-the one a lack of contributors, the other a lack of subscribers. Of this last, however, we have but little dread ;-extreme parsimony is not a vice too common among the youthful generation, and it is not that which will injure us; our only wish is, that those who so willingly assist us with the commodity from their purses, would also assist us with the commodity from their brains, and that all our purchasers would also become contributors to our Observer.

MY NATIVE LAND.

The heather on the mountains' height,
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae.

To autumn summer yields, but glories still
Greater than her's are lingering on the hill;
The skies reflect the glow of purple heath,
And many a moorcock rises to his death.
The red deer, starting with unwonted dread,
With wary glance uplifts an antlered head;
With artful flight an artful foe to mock,
In safety seeks the mountain with his flock.
Not always thus the mountain hails him back,
Not always thus he leaves a bloodless track;
But echoes that from deadly shots arise,
And mark the stag's expiring agonies,-
Groaning his groans, and sighing every sigh,
Mingle with louder, from the hunter's cry;
Then slow retiring down the rocky glen,
Seek their mysterious haunts till waked again.

SCOTT.

Now from the caverns in the distant glens,
Where last year's snow, unmelted, still remains :
Winter has come, whose stern and icy hand
Has bound our brooks and whitened all the land;
E'en his sad reign, the friendly pine has cheered
With endless verdure from the leaf unseared;
And white with snow, the lately varied scene,
Dazzles from contrast with the vivid green.

There would I lie when life's vain struggle 's o'er,
And the wild rocks return my voice no more :
There would I lie; no monument of art
Shall press my bones, or make the wanderer start,—
In that dear land, where all my joys have been,
My tomb by all but friends, unknown-unseen.

N. B.