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from the President, the doors of each living human temple open and the world peeps in. The audience are led through halls and chambers in this palace of intellect, richly furnished with the antique wisdom of by-gone centuries. They are favored with a hasty glance into the rooms of history, science and philosophy, all lighted up by brilliant chandeliers of rhetoric and elocution. This is very beautiful. Old America is delighted. Younger hearts too have come with him, brothers, sisters and friends, and each little party surveys its own dear temple, querying if the world has ever seen such a wonder before. But, alas for the vanity of human hopes. Could their fond eyes look into the aforesaid intellectual temples, by the light of a torch made of a twisted biennial paper, how quickly, in nine cases out of ten, would the gorgeous chandeliers appear not true metal, but only dross, frightfully scoured. How quickly would it appear that in the apartment of history one or two gorgeous incidents, had been carefully selected and hung over bare walls. And in the rooms of science and philosophy, such incongruities would be apparent, that it would speedily be evident, that the furniture had been borrowed for the occasion, and must soon be returned to those great ware-houses-the text books.

Now, if not already too tired, look beyond into the back-ground. The figures there, are only just visible beneath the heavy shading of care and anxiety. They are the same features which are so lighted up in the fore-ground, but sad, heavy, pensive, melancholy, lugubrious. There is one sitting by a big round table, on which stands an almost empty cigar box, with a half smoked stump beside it. Innumerable sheets of fools-cap are scattered around, together with a "Webster's Dictionary, unabridged," and a mildewed volume of Kant. Sapient, solemn, "grave and reverend Senior," you are compiling a "great piece," a "deep piece," a "beautiful piece," to be delivered at " Commencement." You are going to convince men that you are destined to become one of the "pillars of the ' age." A careful observer might also notice a change of costume with the change of scene. In front the figures appear in an elegant citizen's dress. But here, owing either to the state of the atmosphere, or the classic taste of the individuals themselves, their garb is of a style not on the latest fashion plates, to say the least. But all this is essential to "Commencement Day." Year after year the grand effect of the day itself has been made to depend on this heavy back-ground. Year after year scraps of immortal literature

equally precious with that on the above mentioned fools-cap, have been composed, to be the heralds of a bright and shining light in the world of letters.

Oh, the head-aches and the heart-aches of those gloomy shapes, the pale faces and the anxious steps which they have known. And all, that on "Commencement Day," a few old eyes may brighten with a proud light, a few old hearts shake with strange swelling hopes, and a few words of babbled admiration be heard. Then save

in a few rare instances, the lonely path which leads down into the dark valley of obscurity, must be trodden, however reluctantly, unless, perchance seen by the glare of ambition's torch, that path seems preferable which leads down into that other and still darker valley, "the dark valley of the shadow of death."

A glance now on either side of the central group, and with a few passing remarks, we will turn away. Look at those old men there. How finely their gray hairs and calm faces contrast with the dark locks and earnest countenances of the central figures. This is the group of the Alumni. See too what a diversity of light and shade characterizes this portion of the picture. The joys and sorrows of a life time falling more or less thickly on every head. It is the finest feature in the whole scene, this assembly of Alma Mater's children once more returned. By them "Commencment Day" is consecrated to the memories of their student life. Even the grim old College buildings, standing in the sunshine, seem to smile a welcome to these, the men who hacked and hewed them in the time past, now the venerable fathers of Yale. And these too, with their harvest of life-experience almost garnered, return with mingled feelings of joy and sadness. They speak together of those who were, but are not. They talk of the good times and the hard times of their college days. They speak of the friends whom they knew and here and there a face is turned away, as the name of some star of their own constellation is mentioned, and the story, perhaps mournful story, of its going down is told.

Here then our rough sketch of "Commencement Day" closes. Every one must supply for himself the crowded hotels, the intolerable heat, the dusty streets, and the Society reunions. We leave it to each to adorn his ideal of "Commencement Day" with such a quantity of these as his taste or experience shall suggest, simply stopping to wish success to the Commencement of 1858.

A. H. W.

Two Visits:

OR BLENHEIM PALACE AND MT. VERNON.

No. I.

HAVING wandered all day through Oxford, "The city of palaces," with a very confused idea of its "nineteen colleges and five halls," (colleges not endowed,) and of the various dresses worn by their "6000 Members," I took the cars back to Woodstock Station. I say back, for I had passed it on my way from Liverpool to Oxford, not knowing that it was the nearest point to Blenheim palace, which I purposed visiting.

Having heard that grand oration of Everett on Washington-I may here say that it was that oration that caused me to return to visit Blenheim, and which, as all will see, suggested the idea of this “squib”—in which he, in beautiful burning words contrasts the grandeur of Blenheim with the humility of Mt. Vernon, and the great base character of Marlborough, with the lofty spotless purity of "our Washington;" I could not restrain my desire to see the fairy land that I had heard so beautifully and eloquently described. On my way I met a gentleman who seemed to be acquainted with the surrounding country, and who entered heartily into conversation with me.

Finding that I was from America, he commenced to speak of American literature. I soon found he was not one of those Englishmen who with scorn ask, "who reads an American book ?" for he was well acquainted with all the better writers of our country. Finding that he wished to discuss the subject of slavery—I will give him the credit of ending his conversation where most of his countrymen begin it-I gave the conversation a sudden turn, as we drew near the town of Woodstock, which is two miles from the station of the same name, and began to speak of some of the historic memories which surrounded us. He was at home on these subjects. In the first place he informed me that the town of Woodstock was mainly supported by the American Glove Works. He then showed me the house in which Chaucer was born, and is supposed to have died, and also pointed out the place where "Edward the black prince" was born. He then showed me my hotel, informing me at the same time that next morning he would call and conduct me through the "prviate garden of the Duke," which could not be vis

ited without "a permit from his Grace." Astonished at the politeness of this thoroughly English and yet half Frenchman, I inquired to whom I was indebted for so much kindness, and afterward learned from mine host, that Mr. M—was the chief proprietor of the "Glove Works," and that it was his habit, and not out of the way of his interest, to be polite to Americans.

After so long a preliminary, we will suppose, reader, that you have slept well and breakfasted comfortably at the “Kings Arms,” and are ready to walk forth with us to view Blenheim palace and its fairy surroundings. The first object that meets us as we enter, or rather before we enter, the park, is the "Grand Triumphal Arch.” It is of the Corinthian order, and was built by Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, to the memory of John, the great Duke. We pass on. Now, reader, take one view of the fourteen miles of grandeur and beauty spread out before you. You will, perchance, never see its equal again. Oh, that you had days to wander through it! will be your exclamation. But this glance will live with you. You will never loose the memory of

"This enchanting site; where every rural sweet,

And every natural charm, delight to meet."

In the course of your ride you are constantly delighted, not only with the beauty of the scenery, but also with the numerous objects of historic interest that present themselves. "High Lodge," formerly the residence of Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, first claims our notice. Then we pass the "Grand Bridge" which spans the "Lake," supplied by the "Glyme." Near by is "Fair Rosamand's" well and bower, which remind us of Walter Scott's "Woodstock." Here is Warton's inscription on the spring:

"Here quench your thirst, and mark in me

An emblem of true charity,

Who, while my bounty I bestow,

Am neither heard nor seen to flow."

"The Obelisk"

There is one object of interest we must not pass. was erected to the memory of the great Duke, and is one hundred and thirty or one hundred and thirty-four feet high-authorities differ. It has recorded on it in order, the brilliant actions of the great Captain; the inscription being written by Lord Bolingbroge.

But we must reluctantly stop our wanderings in the park while there is yet time to visit the private gardens, ere the palace opens.

My Guide reads "we cannot avoid regretting that at present strangers can only become acquainted with the beauties of this garden by description. When finished, it doubtless will be open for occasional visitors."

But you will remember that my friend M— promised to take us in by a permit from his Grace who now lies sick in his palace. He is as good as his promise. Now it is impossible that I should enumerate half the beauties and wonders of this place. Many beautiful gardens have I seen, but never one equal to this. "Jardin des Plantes," at Paris, cannot compare with it in many respects. Here are flowers, plants, trees and shrubbery from every clime under heaven. As we pass from one garden to another, we can only admire and wonder at the surpassing beauty of flowers, fountains, water-falls, statuary, and, in short, of every thing that nature and art can combine to make it an Eden of enchantments.

Before we leave this "Paradise of sweets," let us glance at "Flora Petraea," or the rock garden. "On approaching the entrance to it a formidable barrier presents itself; a slight touch of the hand, however, dispels the mystery, and the huge rock is removed as if by magic, and the beautiful garden, with its rare rock plants, the woods, the rock work, the splendid lake, the palace, all open at at once to the view of the astonished beholder." Sorry are we to leave this paradise; and sorry are we, reader, to leave you with such an imperfect idea of this surpassingly beautiful place, so rarely seen by strangers. But our own time then, and our short space now, compel us to visit the palace itself. Our words about this shall be few. It was built by Vanburgh, and is said to be a good example of his clumsy style. He was celebrated for building heavy structures, and consequently this epitaph was composed for him.

"Lie heavy on him earth, for he laid

Many a heavy load on thee."

The seat was presented by Queen Ann, to John, the first and great Duke of Marlborough, for his victory over the French on the second of August, 1702, on which day, every year, the holder of the seat presents a stand of colors to the Queen.

Without further ceremony we will enter this palace of art. And at the very outset we are at a loss what to say. Had we the ability, we have not the time to conduct you through the “sixteen grand rooms" that are adorned with about four hundred paintings of the

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