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in this line of literature have not been misapplied; and our readers will surely agree with us, when they reflect on the manifold utility of the study, when properly cultivated. There is so little variety in English christian names, that, where friends are in the habit of using them, great mistakes must naturally take place. A sirname, as Charles Surface observes, " is too formal to be registered in Love's calendar." A nickname avoids alike the ambiguity of one, and the stiffness of the other; it unites all the familiarity of the first with all the utility of the second. Besides this, the nickname is a brief description of its object : it saves a million of questions, and an hour of explanation: it is in itself a species of biography. Homer, when he gives to his Juno the nickname of Bull'seyed,”.expresses in a word what a modern rhymer would dlate into a Canto.

For the rescuing of nicknames from the obloquy into which they have fallen, we have collected a large assortment of them, which we are ready to dispose of to applicants at a very low price. We have in our stock appellations of every description---the Classical, the Familiar, the Theatrical, the Absurd, the Complimentary, the Abusive, and the Composite. By an application at our publisher's, new nicknames may be had at a moment's notice. The wit and the blockhead, the sap and the idler, shall be fitted with denominations which shall be alike appropriate and flattering, so that they shall neither outrage propriety, nor offend self-conceit.' The Dandy shall be suited with a name which shall bear no allusion to stays, and the Coquette with one which shall in no way reflect upon rouge. In short, we have a collection of novelties adapted to both sexes, and proper for all ages. In one thing only is our stock deficient; and that, we are confident, will be supplied previous to the appearance of our second Number. We have no doubt that some obligingly sarcastic associate will favour us with a new and an ingenious nickname for THE ETONIAN.

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.

(FROM THE POETRY OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE.)

BENEATH the chancel's hallow'd stone,

Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,

My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words, upon the rough stone graven,

Thy name-thy birth-thy youth declareThy innocence—thy hopes of Heaven

In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery o'er my brother's grave.
The place is silent-rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around;
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street,
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
From neighb'ring fort or citadel;
No sound of human toil or strife
To death's lone dwelling speaks of life,
Nor breaks the silence still and deep

Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid in that unstartled sleep
The living eye

hath never known.
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As, slowly pacing through the aile,

He sweeps th' unholy dust away,
And cobwebs, which must not defile

Those windows on the Sabbath-day ;

And, passing through the central nave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But when the sweet-ton'd Sabbath-chime,

Pouring its music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time

Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees ; When rustic crowds devoutly meet,

And lips and hearts to God are given,
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet

Of earthly ills, in thoughts of Heaven ;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial stone ?
What form in priestly meek array
Beside the altar kneels to pray

?
What holy hands are lifted up
To bless the sacramental cup ?
Full well I know that rev'rend form,

And if a voice could reach the dead,
Those tones would reach thee, though the worm,

My brother, makes thy heart his bed ;
That Sire, who thy existence gave,
Now stands beside thy lowly grave.
It is not long since thou wert wont

Within these sacred walls to kneel ;
This altar, that baptismal font,

These stones which now thy dust conceal, The sweet tones of the Sabbath-bell,

Were holiest objects to thy soul; On these thy spirit loved to dwell,

Untainted by the world's control. My brother, those were happy days,

When thou and I were children yet ; How fondly memory still surveys

Those scenes, the heart can ne'er forget ! My soul was then, as thine is now,

Unstain'd by sin, unstung by pain; Peace smil'd on each unclouded brow

Mine ne'er will be so calm again.

How blithely then we hail'd the ray
Which usher'd in the Sabbath-day!
How lightly then our footsteps trod ·
Yon pathway to the house of God!
For souls, in which no dark offence
Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallow'd shrine,
Which guiltier bosoms own divine.
I feel not now as then I felt,

The sunshine of my heart is o'er ;
The spirit now is changed which dwelt

Within me, in the days before. But thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence, In all thy guileless innocence; One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee, In reverential pietyFor childish faults forgiveness cravem The next beam'd brightly on thy grave. The crowd, of which thou late wert one, Now throng'd across thy burial-stone; Rude footsteps trampled on the spot, Where thou lay'st mould'ring and forgot; And some few gentler bosoms wept, In silence, where my brother slept. I stood not by thy fev'rish bed,

I look'd not on thy glazing eye, Nor gently lull’d thy aching head,

Nor view'd thy dying agony: I felt not what my parents felt,

The doubt the terror-the distressNor vainly for my brother knelt

My soul was spared that wretchedness. One sentence told me, in a breath, My brother's illness--and his death! And days of mourning glided by, And brought me back my gaiety; For soon in childhood's wayward heart Doth crush'd affection cease to smart.

Again I join'd the sportive crowd
Of boyish playmates, wild and loud;
I learnt to view with careless eye
My sable garb of misery;
No more I wept my brother's lot,
His image was almost forgot ;
And ev'ry deeper shade of pain
Had vanish'd from my soul again.

The well-known morn, I used to greet

With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home and raptures sweet

In ev'ry eye but mine were gleaming ; But I, amidst that youthful band

Of beating hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command,

Nor felt those wonted ecstasies :
I loved my home, but trembled now
To view my father's alter'd brow;
I fear'd to meet my

mother's

eye,
And hear her voice of agony ;
I fear'd to view my native spot,
Where he who lov'd it-now was not.
The pleasures of my honie were fled--
My brother slumber'd with the dead.

I drew near to my

father's gate-
No smiling faces met me now
I enter'd-all was desolate

Grief sat upon my mother's brow:
I heard her, as she kiss'd me, sigh;
A tear stood in my father's eye ;
My little brothers round me press'd,
In gay unthinking childhood blest.
Long, long that hour has pass'd, but when
Shall I forget its mournful scene?

The Sabbath came- - with mournful pace
I sought my brother's burial place-

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