proverbially prosing character. He therefore determined to "be up to him," as the fancy have it; and having somewhere found the copy of an obsolete satirical epic which an enamored snuff-taker had once addressed to a mistress, who could reciprocate the interjection over her snuff box,-- "Knows he the joys that my nose knows!" Wheelwright copied it out, and presented it to the faculty as his own composition. Being addicted to the use of the titillating powder himself, it was but a reasonable supposition on his own part, that it would give no offence. It commenced thus:-- Softly waft, ye southern breezes, Bear my plaints to her I _love_-- Say to her whene'er she sneezes, Sympathy my muscles _move_; My true-love is formed of graces, Takes cephalic, likes a quid, And is beauteous as the faces Carved on an _Irish_ snuff-box lid. _Cetera desunt._ The hit at the rhetoric-professor's snuff-box was only understood by those who had seen the article referred to; and on the whole, the performance was considered a very clever _jeu-d'esprit_ by the faculty, who knew nothing of its paternity, and set it down as his own. Still, as being hardly in keeping with the gravity of the occasion, it was rejected as a part of the public exercises of the commencement. Anticipating this result, however, Daniel had provided himself, by virtue of a basket of Spitzenbergs, with a few stanzas of metre, entitled "An Ode on Ambition," which were more successful. It was written by a young gentleman who has since taken several silver cups for theatrical prize-addresses, full of phoenixes, and the Greek classics from Lempriere. He has also been a large contributor to those beautifully printed, useful, and fashionable hebdomadals, the Milliners' Literary Gazette, Young Ladies' Companion, _et id genus omne_. The ode ran thus:-- The warrior fights, and dies for fame-- The empty glories of a name;-- But we who linger round this spot, The warrior's guerdon covet Nott. Nott for the miser's glittering heap Within these walls is bartered sleep; The humble scholar's quiet lot With dreams of wealth is troubled Nott. While poring o'er the midnight lamp, In rooms too cold, and sometimes damp, O man, who land and cash hast got, Thy life of ease we envy Nott. Our troubles here are light and few;-- An empty purse when bills fall due, A locker, without e'er a shot,-- Hard recitations, or a Knot. Ty problem, which we can't untie,-- Our only shirt hung out to dry,-- A chum who never pays his scot,-- Such ills as these we value Nott. O, cherished *****! learning's home, Where'er the fates may bid us roam, Though friends and kindred be forgot, Be sure we shall forget thee Nott.