Der Schulfreund wird nie vergessen.'
—Jean Paul

Your Edinburgh is well enough—
Stone picture of the past and present;
But we have in us better stuff
To make the winter evening pleasant.
So doff your heavy coat and hat,
And let the nipping winds still bellow,
We'll poke the fire, and have a chat
Across the table, old schoolfellow.
Your Darnleys, Bothwells, what are they
To make us weep the modern fashion?
The former was of ductile clay,
The latter rough and strong with passion.
And Mary—here I bend the eye,
For, hang it, I am weak and human,
And pay my homage in a sigh
To her, the royal queen and woman.
Of course it is but right to talk
About your Scott and all those fellows,
Who stand the cock of their own walk,
And make us halting rhymsters jealous.
Your fine De Quincey and Kit North,
Keen critic, pugilist, and better,
Yet won a belt of golden worth
In the keen struggle of belles lettres.
But not of these shall we discourse;
To-night we pour a rich libation
To all the past, and put in force
A retrospective conversation.
So draw a little closer, Joe,
We'll let our manhood slip the tether,
And walk into the long ago,
When we were at the school together.
You still remember the old school,
In which we sat with eye discerning,
And head of solemn wisdom full—
Two infant Solomons of learning.
How prim and staid we tried to look,
Like wisdom's owl from out our places;
Then bit the cover of our book,
And tried our hand at making faces.
Then grew up to its highest strength
The palmy state of flagellation,
And brought to us the wish at length
To make some dire recrimination.
But still (for tears came ready then)
We stretch'd out hands with many a whimper,
Yet Traddles-like, when all the pain
Had pass'd we straight began to simper.
But do you mind that day of dread,
When all at once our old gray master
Put up his spectacles and said—
'These boys!' and then his speech grew faster,
Till, ere we could be fairly mute,
He came, and out not one he singled,
But thrash'd us all from dux to foot,
Till every tiny sinner tingled?
But we were worthy of it then;
For what with killing Lindley Murray,
And wasting paper, ink, and pen,
We kept him in a constant worry.
We fought, too, Joe, as boys will fight
When in their little heats of passion;
But in two minutes made it right,
And went about in loving fashion.
What pictures, too, of things we drew
Instead of sums our dirty slate on!
They might have given a hint or two
To Holman Hunt or Noel Paton.
Our facile pencil, quick of touch,
Sketch'd landscape, hamlet, cot, and city,
And narrow glens and caverns, such
As offer shelter to banditti!
I drew the heroes of that age
Now named the 'iron,' and I painted
Knights with their chargers in a rage,
And warriors that now are sainted.
Hood speaks of his 'art's early days,'
And we, who are less worthy mortals,
May speak of ours, and claim some praise
For serving at Apollo's portals.
But O! that happy time, when we
Anticipated love's sweet fetters;
And like young Eupheists set free
Our passion in a flight of letters.
You wrote to Mary; I to Kate;
We gave our boyish lore an airing,
And hinted what would be our fate
If they should go against our pairing.
I wonder where they are just now,—
Those sweethearts of that tender season;
Will wifehood be upon their brow?
A thing that plainly stands to reason.
If we could see them by the hearth—
Who knows but such a thing yet may be?
They'd ask us, full of matron mirth,
If we would like to nurse the baby.
Then I would give a stare or two,
And make what answer I was able
By rising from my chair to view,
Then lay my hand upon the table,
And stammer—'When I saw you last
This was, I think, about your stature;
But now—good heavens! time flies fast,
And you are in your wish'd-for nature.'
But verbum sat upon that theme,
This seems to me a poor digression;
And why should we of sorrow dream,
And give our thoughts a sad expression?
The happier part is ours to-night,
So never let our thoughts turn yellow;
But let our fancy have free flight
As we sit talking, old schoolfellow.
What days were those when summer brought
The long vacation, and the ramble
Through field and wood, in which we sought,
Like the two babes, the glossy bramble;
Or hung upon some branchy point,
For nuts of brown and crimson lustre;
And oft got sadly out of joint
By fighting for the largest cluster!
We were two little Waltons then,
Well skill'd in piscatory searches;
And proudly show'd our finny gain,
In trouts and porcupine-like perches.
No rocky hill or mossy ground
To loch or streamlet could prevent us,
But off, with many a frisk and bound,
We set, as if non compos mentis.
I still could point you out the pool
By which you sat, with patience banded,
And never let your ardour cool
Until your first small trout was landed.
I see the sparkle in your eye,
The triumph upon every feature,
As with a sanguinary cry
You kill'd the little trembling creature.
And then, when we had need of rest,
We sat by each, and, all-confiding,
Exchanged what dreams were in our breast
As to our future plan and guiding.
We were to be great men, and take
High paths that all our kind would travel,
And live pure lives, and never make
A slip at which our friends might cavil.
Ah me! those dreams are now no more,
And we, since they have slipt their bridle,
Might well have sat as models for
Some modern Hogarth's Thomas Idle.
But, che importa, we have had
Our little spell at blowing bubbles;
And now, for I am turning sad,
We have our manhood and its troubles.
The little hamlet where our sweet
Swift boyhood sped knows not our faces;
Strange footsteps pace its little street,
And other forms fill up our places.
Bowl'd out by life's remorseless aim,
That will not let us keep our wicket,
We try our hand at labour's game,
And find it other work than cricket.
So be it, Joe; our ups and downs
Have left us, after all their pillage,
You in the drawing-room of towns,
I coop'd up in a quiet village.
Yet here they have, in kindly part,
Brought us this night once more together;
Two men in face, yet boys at heart,
As when we went to school together.
'As when we went to school.' Ah dear!
We then were headstrong, slim, and sallow,
And like a Nelson had no fear,
For we were careless, smooth, and callow.
But now (nay, never hide your beard,
Here's one upon my chin to mate it),
We're rough and strong, and all prepared
For that to which we may be fated.
And so your hand! The past again
Has made us draw a little nearer,
And look on aught that happen'd then
As something yearly growing dearer.
For boyhood, like sweet love's first prime,
Has spells that were divinely given;
And all the light that crown'd that time
Fell somewhere from a rent in heaven.
Tush! all this prating wearies you,
Who care not for such backward fancies,
But hold them, like some bill just due,
As things to start St Vitus dances.
You shake your head. I do you wrong;
Well, if there's aught I can remember,
Why, Joe, I'll hitch it into song,
And bore you with it next December.