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ing, "Yes, 'twill do, it must do, 'twill take. I'm sure of it, it must take, &c." I stared; but patiently awaited an explanation, which he proceeded to give in the following shape: that in the said ancient magazine he had seen an announcement of the publication, reputation, and extensive patronage accorded to a little work with the very quaint and singular appellation of the Oxford Sausage.* "Well, and what then, my boy?" I replied. His rejoinder was, Why, my good fellow, you must be blind; don't you see?" Having confessed to a certain amount of obtuseness on the point, I quietly requested to be enlightened-to be informed by what chain of reasoning and what process of ratiocination, he anticipated such vast benefits, or any, arising from such a source. "Sir," he exclaimed," cause and effect-OXFORD is OXFORD, but (here he reined up) CAMBRIDGE also is CAMBRIDGE ! Who has the presumption to award the palm? though I have my opinion. Now," (a favourite word with him) he went on, getting grandiloquent, Oxford has its SAUSAGE, and why not Cambridge its TART? Sir, I will immortalize my ALMA MATER, for Cambridge shall have its TART, prepared even though by my hands!" The chap infected me to a certain degree with his enthusiasm, and we forthwith took long, sage, and sweet counsel together. I suggested the propriety, and indeed downright necessity, of procuring a copy of this said Oxford Sausage, with a view to discover from its style, arrangement, and the subject matter altogether, the nature of the work. This he cordially agreed to, and then burst out with, taking me firmly by the hand "My dear and best friend, fancy the Cambridge Tart by the side of the Oxford Sausage! Delicia Amba! myself at the pinnacle of literary" Here I stopped him, and, begging him to cease his raptures, exhorted him to action. Where to procure the book was the next question, and, fortified by an extra glass to our success, we started that very afternoon, and carefully scrutinized the contents of a certain number of book-stalls, without avail. Nothing daunted, we resumed our investigations on the following morning, going forth early, and to the same literary founts. Not the humblest stall of the modern "Lackingtons" throughout the vast city did we omit diligently to explore. We tried very many of the second-hand booksellers in vain. Fortune had taken the field against us for the present, and our patience and our boots were fast wearing away. Our peregrinations had now consumed a week, and on a Saturday evening we were sitting at home in a lugubrious state of spirits; my companion's visage long, dismal, and portentous to an alarming extent, when I shortened it considerably by the sudden announcement that I had not lost all hope of succeeding in our search -that there was one mine unexplored-a large, very old-established, likely, second-hand bookshop at the west end of the town, that I was of old, acquainted with a son of the proprietor-that the article would be found there, if anywhere; and I actually felt a kind of presentiment that (psha! presentiments? I refuse to enter upon them, for that way a fit of fidgets also lies) we should there at length clutch the prize. I further announced that I was always made most welcome at their table, and my intention of dining there the next day, and of fully exploring every shelf, nook, and cranny of the house, for the wished-for copy. All of which ideas my listener much approved ; and accordingly I made my appearance at the hospitable abode, abutting upon Wigmore-street, an hour before the prandial meal, paying my first "respects" to the tall, bony, stalwart senior, Methinks I now see him sitting in the capacious apartment (the shop, indeed,) below; his speech curt, abrupt, and authoritative in manner, and his venerable head ensconced in a black velvet cap. Fool! fool that I was! not to have logged his anecdotes (he was rather partial_to, and chatty with me); for when "assistant," then called "journeyman," to Dodsley, the celebrated bookseller of that period, he had frequently in bodily person beheld the redoubtable Dr.

• I am by no means certain, but imagine it to have been published some time in the latter half of the Eighteenth Century.

Samuel Johnson! Ah! had I but taken notes. Eheu! regrets are as vain as poignant.

I soon took an opportunity of mentioning the book I was so anxious to obtain, and my heart palpitated with pleasure as he informed me that he remembered perfectly well such a work being in existence, and that it was greatly within the bounds of possibility that it might be found in his lumber room. Seeing my anxiety, he kindly excused me, and I quickly foregathered with the son, told my tale, and who (although Sunday, dinner being not yet ready) good naturedly consented to gratify me by an instantaneous investigation of the contents of the aforesaid room, which was of some extent, and various bygone books, and mildewed pamphlets, covered with dust and cobwebs in quantity, lay upon the unpainted shelves. We soon disturbed them, and plunged into the fray. Industrious and energetic was I in the extreme, my efforts were Herculean; it must be conceded that I covered myself with glory, and my smart, blue, five-pound, dress-coat with dust. Toiling on, at length, on taking up a small drab-coloured, modest, paper-covered, pamphlet-looking production, I saw on the outside, letters which formed, or seemed to form (for my usual Lynx-like vision underwent a strange but temporary sensation) the words, "THE OXFORD SAUSAGE." My sight clearing-Pleaped up frantically, and shouted" Eureka!" I felt that I had not lived in vain; the remembrance even now affects me. My worthy work fellow smiled his satisfaction, and with a feeling of intense gratification unfelt by, because unknown to cooler and more equable temperaments, attended at the dinner table, expressing warm thanks to my host for his happy suggestion. I was full of anticipatory felicity, but ate my dinner mechanically-my thoughts were away-and I shortly made some ungrateful attempts to depart; they were wretchedly shallow attempts, and I was cordially pressed to tea and spend the evening, "for," urged the dear old hostess, "I expect my son from Oxford this afternoon, and I should like you to see him," &c.

What could I do? The son so expected duly put in an appearance; he was a jeweller and pawnbroker, residing at that classic seat, and a well bred man withal. In due season tea was despatched, succeded by interesting chit-chat, and lastly, supper was announced. Amongst the viands was a certain dish of savoury-smelling balls, on which I fixed my carnal affections; very appetizing were the aforesaid balls, composed of sausage meat, and to which I was doing ample justice, when the host suddenly requested my opinion as to their quality, and whether I thought them equal to - (mentioning my native county) sausages? the hostess proceeding to inform me that her dutiful Oxford son had brought them up with him. Profoundly was I taken aback, here was a coincidence! I was disturbed in my imagination, though not unbearably so; my long-formed ideas recurred in tremendous force, but digestion went on, and I conscientiously bestowed upon them the meed of praise, for they well deserved it. The time of departure at length arrived, and on finding myself at liberty, I suffered not the grass to grow under my feet, so intensely anxious was I to communicate the result of my expedition to my expectant friend. Quickly I traversed the intervening space, more than ever marvelling at the strange nature of coincidences-there was I, bearing on the outward man, carefully pressed and invested in my breast pocket, a paper OXFORD SAUSAGE, and within, my stomach agreeably, tranquilly, and fully lined with veritable OXFORD SAUSAGE MEAT! It was a very and curious coincidence.

Arrived, the latch key soon did its office; I bolted in upon my guest, sitting listlessly by firelight alone, sprung upon him, grasping both his hands with a vice-like grip, and instantly exploded at the top of my voice, "Hurrah, hurrah for presentiments! give ye joy, my prince of the pen." His first gesture was instinctively to release his digitals from my powerful squeeze, as with open

mouth and staring eyes he burst forth-"Eh? what! can it be true! got it?" 'Yes, yes, I've got it safe enough." "The book?" he broke in upon me, "you're not joking, good God, if it should be." "See here, my pippin," displaying it aloft before him, as I rattled on, "trust me for generalship; hurrah! bravo!" "But le-le-let me look;" his hand shook as he seized it, and we proceeded critically to examine its contents. Ah! opposite the title-page was a half-length rude woodcut engraving of one DOROTHY SPREADBURY, of most stolid and old-fashioned features, which rejoiced in an expanse of peak of bonnet that would go nigh to send our modern belles into convulsions-of laughter. It seemed that Oxford had been happy in the birth, and presence 'till death, of this dame, who had achieved a splendid and lasting reputation as a compounder of sausages, thereby adding greatly to the other glories of that seminary of learning and most orthodox port.

Underneath this grim and notable personage was her epitaph, which I beg to append :

"Here, deep in the dust, the mouldy old crust

Of Doll Spreadbury lately was shoven ;

She was skilled in the arts of pies, puddings, and tarts,
And knew every use of the oven.

When she'd lived long enough, she made her last puff,
A puff by her husband much praised ;

Now here she doth lie, and makes a dirt pie,

In hopes that her crust will be raised."

How eagerly did our optics dwell upon the work, which proved to be a compilation, and consisted of morceaux of poetry, jeu d'esprits, bon mots, witty rhymes, &c., the alleged productions at different epochs of Oxford University men; and thus collected, were ushered forth to the world as mentally emulating and eminently resembling the flavour, racy spiciness, and piquant qualities of Doll Spreadbury's composition-thence their title. The way in which the treasure came into my possession I have narrated, and I contend, will go to death upon't, that it was a very curious and anomalous incident. So far for a "Tale of a Coincidence."

I trust to be permitted further to state, that for some months my protegé fagged at the preparation of his Cambridge Tart, largely consulting the poets' corner in a Cambridge newspaper, and drawing suitable articles (the offspring of Cantabs only) from a variety of sources. The vignette was beautiful and appropriate in the extreme, and how distinctly does memory recall the morning of publication, as, in company with its anxious author. I entered the publisher's establishment in the Strand; how, while there, we were electrified with the vision of a carriage and four, which suddenly stopped at the door-when entered a smart liveried official, with a request for four copies of the "Cambridge Tart," for his Grace the Duke of Northumberland! We stood six feet higher. The flavour of the tart, however, pleased not EBONY; a critic in that quarter, laid an unkind hand upon it, and soon it was heard of again no more. My friend bore up under the affliction with much fortitude, but for several years he has slept with his fathers-tranquil rest his spirit! Like the rest of mortals, he experienced many and severe disappointments; but are they not written in that book of fate, in which are alike inscribed our hopes and fears, our joys and our sorrows, and the aspirations of us all after happiness? Yea, verily.

Lastly, a certain individual, (whose name nothing but invincible modesty withholds) wishing to have at least one finger in the pie, somehow the accom

panying epigram mysteriously found its way under the crust-closing the volume. The audacious one hopes to be forgiven:

EPIGRAM.

"Grant that kind fate, whene'er I dine,
An Oxford sausage may be mine;
Nor let me want as a dessert,
A sizing of the Cambridge Tart.
Possessing both, I then should be
So blest, the gods might envy me.

APRIL.

BY JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.

(Original.)

SIGHING, storming, singing, smiling,
With her many moods beguiling,
April walks the wakening earth;
Wheresoe'er she looks and lingers,
Wheresoe'er she lays her fingers,

Some new charm starts into birth.
Fitful clouds about her sweeping,
Coming, going, frowning, weeping-
Melt in fertile blessings round;
Frequent rainbows that embrace her,
And with gorgeous girdles grace her,
Drop in flowers upon the ground.
Gay and green the fields beneath her,
Blue the broad, unfathomed ether,

Bending o'er her bright domain;
Full the buds her hands are wreathing,
Fresh the breezes round her breathing,
Fair her footprints on the plain.
Daisies sprinkle mead and mountain,
Violets by the mossy fountain

Ope their velvet vesture wide;
Cowslips bloom in open splendour,
But the primrose, fair and tender,
In lone places doth abide.

Nature now hath many voices,
Every living thing rejoices

In the spirit of the time;

Winds with leaves in whispers dally,
Streams run singing down the valley,

In the gladness of the prime.

• Sisings, a term well understood by Cantabs; extra collegiate fare, such as tartlets, marrow puddings, &c. Poetic license must be pleaded for singularizing the word sizings.

Larks have long been up and chanting,
And the woodland is not wanting

In the sounds we love to hear,
For the thrush calls long and loudly,
And quaint echo answers proudly
From romantic hollows near.

Now the cuckoo, "blithe new comer,"
Faithful seeker of the summer,
Wheresoe'er its footsteps be,
Sits in places calm and lonely,
And in measured cadence only

Sends wild music o'er the lea.

Who doth not delight to hear her?
Children's careless eyes grow clearer,
As they look and listen long;
Manhood pauses on his travel,
Age endeavours to unravel

Old thoughts waking at her song.

Unbeliever, wan and wasted,
If the cup which thou hast tasted
Turns to poison as it flows,
Come, while gentler spirits call thee,
Let their summons disenthral thee
Of thy weakness and thy woes.

With the world if thou art weary-
If with doubt thy soul be dreary;

Crushed thy harassed heart with care

There is hope, and there is healing,
Purer fancy, nobler feeling,

In this free, untainted air.

Mark this floweret, sweetly peeping
From the sod, where safe and sleeping
It hath lain the winter through-
How it opens with soft seeming
To the breeze and to the beaming
Of the sun shower and the dew.

God hath made it, fed it, trained it
Into beauty and maintained it

For thy use and solace, man;
Can such Guardian be forgetful
Of the selfish, sinful, fretful,
Human portion of His plan ?

All is gladness, all is beauty,
Nature with instinctive duty

Lifts her joyous homage high;

Why shouldst thou, with gloom ungrateful, Turn on goodly things a hateful,

Thankless heart, a scornful eye.