We were led by accident, the other day, into certain odd speculations upon

THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.

Who was it that astonished his hearers by declaring that beefsteak-pudding always put him in mind of Westminster Abbey? It was the same man who responded to the "Why?" by saying, "O! I don't know why, but it does!"

"Association of Ideas" is arrangeable under two heads: the discoverable, and the undiscoverable. Of the last, first. How often do we every day jump from one point to another, as distinct in themselves as the sublime and the ridiculous, and far more widely asunder? We are talking of A, and Z starts up in the mind. White is the subject of the speculation, and in walks Black. It may be said, that as likes beget likes, so opposites beget opposites; and it may be very true that if you cannot directly call Z to mind when you want him, it is advisable to recollect A, as likelier to remind you of him than Y, or any other alphabetician. Granted; but, on the same principle, when you want to think of water, you should order in some brandy. The connexion may be close, although the elements are opposite. In like manner, we are told, when trying to recal some reprobate's alias, to think of a church of the same name; as we might think of a duellist, to suggest the image of a practical Christian. So, if we would be reminded of the truth and simplicity of Shakspeare, we ought to remember how his plays are sometimes acted; we shall see the high point from the low. Again, the image of a poor-box might be useful to help us to the idea of fulness; as that of a medicine-chest might be, to suggest the sense of turtle and venison. But we need not multiply opposites; grant that suggestions arise thus, when ideas stand opposed in straight lines—when the electric wire runs direct between them, wonderfully connecting the remote—yet how are we to account for the association of ideas in cross-roads, where there cannot possibly be the slightest connexion—where the fancy starts off at all sorts of angles, or wriggles through all kinds of crooked lines, without an apparent chance of stumbling upon the image that nevertheless comes uppermost? Cases constantly occur where there is not a particle of affinity. The child-idea is born without a parent-idea; there is not the shadow of a traceable relationship. We are discussing the merits of Cerito, and one of Euclid's problems bursts upon us; we are quietly repeating to ourselves some verses of the Odyssey, and suddenly the mind wanders to the subject of muffins. What connexion is there between shirt-frills and glass bottles? Yet how rapidly may one follow the other, like debtor and creditor, and become as intimately related as needle and thread!

On the other hand the Discoverable links of association are often as clear and connected as pearls strung on silver; and sometimes, it must be owned, they are altogether as tangled and confused, though still traceable by a nice curiosity. It needs no ghost to tell us why twenty-one shillings suggest the idea of a guinea—though the one coin be of the more precious metal; nor is it necessary to show why a Manton at this season awakens associations of pheasants and partridges—the consanguinity is obvious. But how comes it that my simple little cat (Dummy by name) called up, the other evening, by a very ordinary movement, the image of Cleopatra? How? Why, the mere sweep of her sable tail reminded me of the black leopard in the Surrey Zoological Gardens: where the gigantic model of Rome suggested a thought of the CÆsars; Antony, of course, started up, and in the "hundred-thousandth part of the millionth division of a second," I was in Egypt old, gazing upon the undying glory of Cleopatra! What so simple! Such chains lengthen themselves incessantly in the mind—the links are drawn each to each, of their "own sweet will," and bind us unawares. Lightning is slow compared with the flight of thought. How quickly does an oyster beget the idea of our first parents! Thus: an oyster—Milton oysters—Milton—Adam and Eve! Let any reader who may happen to be thinking of wrought-iron, trace back his speculation, and laugh to find that it had its origin perhaps in camomiles; as camomiles had in turn been suggested by the "Pilgrim's Progress!"

—— But all this is less an address to the patient reader than an apology to an injured Correspondent. We wish to show, beyond mistake, how we misnamed a valued illuminator of our vehicle, who last month related an Incident of Travel. His name is Copus; we could not call it to mind, and so we styled him Quickly. Observe. Quickly in this case was the son of Mrs. Quickly; Mrs. Quickly was, in our imagination, the mother of Sack; Sack is, to our knowledge, the brother of Copus. The connexion is mysterious—yet mysteriously simple. Copus! How could we forget thee?—thou wert companion of our youth. We knew thee well—thou art a spicy fellow, and a cheerful! What youthful reveller in academic relaxations recollects thee not, with thy wine and toast, thy lemon, cloves, and seductive et ceteras! Here's a chant that particularises thy pleasantries:—

And now shall Copus, John Copus, (late Quickly) speak for himself, on a subject which, by a natural sequence, treads on the heels of the foregoing.

I sometimes speculate as to what little boys at school now-a-days talk about, as to what form the chief subjects of their amusement. It is sadly to be feared, that the innocent and ingenuous ignorance of my school-days has been exchanged for a culpable smattering of sophisticated knowledge, foolishly so called. Oh! who could wish when he calls to mind the days of his boyhood—at least, who that has a particle of romance, the smallest dash of sentiment, in his heart, could wish, that the boys of the present day should be sceptical as to the soothing belief then so prevalent, that the luscious preparation of sugar and peppermint which they eat, is really and truly a portion of "Gibraltar Rock;" or that the "brandy balls," with which they beguile their happy hours, and clart their fingers' ends, are indeed remnants of the lot of those very "Nelson's bullets" which spread destruction on "Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar."

Some of my readers may perhaps know—I confess my ignorance on this point—what boys now are. Whether a Doudnean tunic and variegated cap of divers kinds of cloth warm the possessor of as much solid understanding, as the honest pepper-and-salt clothes and undoubted beaver hat did in times gone by. I will, however, endeavour to illustrate what boys were in the last generation. And first, you shall agree that they excelled as a body in the inventive faculty. I scarcely need instance Walter Scott—the following story will establish my point without further aid.

Let us suppose the scene—a moderate-sized room—with eighteen beds or so in it, and the same number of boys in them, varying in age from eight to twelve, with every variety of nightcap, from the cosey linen one fitting "snod" to the head, and tied well under the chin, to the dignified and manly double cotton with long tuft; these enclosing all the varieties of hair, known as turnips, carrots, candles, &c. "Now Grant," shouts the biggest of the lot, "it's your turn to tell a story to-night—don't be afraid, (he was a new lad,) any thing will do, so fire away, and I'll thrash the first that interrupts him." The youth thus addressed, having evidently prepared his story, begins slowly and argumentatively thus:—"Well, once upon a time there was a mill" (it was considered a solecism to omit a mill or a castle,) "in a great plain—and a family lived there—well—and so there were three men, and they went out one night and walked across the plain—and it grew quite dark;" (here, one of the youngest lads, frightened at the fearful ideas conjured up by the last words, gives a faint sigh;) "and so after a bit they began to feel hungry—and one said Look! there's a light! and they all swore a solemn oath that they would go to where it was, and get something to eat, or else kill one another." (Here evident proofs are given that the greater portion of the audience are deeply interested in the progress of the tale, for various small sighs are heard, indicative either of sympathy with sufferers under the pangs of hunger, or of apprehension lest the three "jurors," taking the Kilkenny cats as precedents, should eventually become all of them homicides.) "Well—and so they went to the mill—and one of them knocked—and then the miller got up, and sharpening a large knife went to the door and asked who was there?—and the boldest of the three told him, that they were three travellers, and wanted food and a lodging. So the miller let them in, and they had a jolly good tuck-out of tea and buttered toast, and then went to bed.——And so my story's ended."

"Grant—come here!" mildly observes the biggest of the crew. The youth thus addressed rises cheerfully—advances boldly—and falls precipitately—levelled by a well-aimed bolster. "Now Grant!" continues the non-appreciator of a tale worthy for its simplicity of conception of a Wordsworth—for its pensive dÉnouement of a Dickens;—"Now Grant, just pick that up—and won't I lick you to-morrow morning, you precious fool—that's all."

I cannot lay the flattering unction to my soul, of believing that the modern dormitory could produce so striking a proof of talent. No sir; from fountains such as these have risen the immortal strains of a —— and a —— (you can fill in the names). In vain will the survivors of the next generation look for any similar display of talent. But if this fail to convince you of the decided superiority of the boys of auld lang syne in one branch of knowledge, give me your attention whilst I recount an overpowering proof, that in appreciation of real wit and talent for the ludicrous, they were indeed unrivalled. A new lad had come, who from having liberally bestowed various "tucks" on almost every one of his friends in the bed-room was popular on the whole, and received very cordially by us all. At all our stories connected with the various "masters," "monitors," "servants," boys that had left, and boys that remained, (and some of them were by no means amiss,) he seemed rather to sneer, so that he was voted a dull fellow—a spoon—a sap. When, however, emboldened by acquaintance with us, he began to talk of the school he had left, his delight, and even laughter, knew no bounds. "Oh! master was such a jolly fellow"—he said one day to a select circle of friends—"and such a funny fellow too he was you don't know—he! he! he! he used to make us laugh so—he! he! I'll tell you such a funny story of him. There was a lad called Brown, and master called him Jacky, because his name was John—he! he! he! Well, one day at dinner, Jacky had only had once of meat, but he'd two helps of pood;" "Of what?" we all exclaimed. "Oh! we called rolly, pood, to distinguish it from stick-jaw," was the explanation given. "So when master said, 'Well, Jacky, will you have any more pudding?' he! he! he! Jacky said, he! he! 'Please sir,' he! he! ha! and master said—he! he! 'Jacky's fond of pudding!' he! he! he! wasn't that funny?"

Having laughed immoderately at the profound and irresistible drollery of Jack Brown's dominie, protesting, that two such schoolmasters would be the death of us, we were all—that is, the whole Omnibus-fraternity in vehicle assembled,—suddenly checked in our hilarity, and sat with solemn visages to listen to

THE LACEMAN'S LAMENT.

"One struggle more and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in twain."—Byron.

This pleasantry not unnaturally called to mind the departed author of a thousand similar essays; of a thousand songs, epigrams, odes, farces, and operas; of a thousand proofs of natural talent and untiring activity of mind. The allusion here made is to Thomas Dibdin, the son of the great sea-songster, the brother of the already by-gone Charles, and consequently, the last of the three! The remains of "Poor Tom" were interred on the 21st of September, in the burial-ground of St. James's Chapel, Pentonville, close by the grave of his old friend, Grimaldi. May he sleep in peace nevertheless! The feeling of a friend seems to be expressed in the subjoined tribute:—

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE THOMAS DIBDIN.

It is the fate of one author to be overlooked by the Great, and of another to be overlooked by the Little. But we very much question, whether any author, be he poet or pamphleteer, occupying what is technically called a two-pair front, was ever subjected, whether sitting down to dinner or getting into bed, to the inconvenience of being Overlooked by the Great, after the fashion portrayed in the margin hereof. Now this we really take to be

THE HEIGHT OF IMPUDENCE!

Impudence has many degrees. When a stranger in a coffee-room politely requests to be allowed just to glance for one instant only at the newspaper you are reading, merely to look at an advertisement, and then, ordering candles into the next box, coolly sits down to read through the parliamentary debate—when a friend borrows your horse, to lend to a friend of his whom he would not trust with his own—a certain degree of impudence has unquestionably been attained. There is impudence in looking through a keyhole, in peeping over the parlour-blinds, in spying into the first-floor from the window "over the way;" but surely the highest stage of impudence is reserved for the man who stops as he strolls along at night, to look into your bed-room window, on the second floor—tapping at it probably with a request to be permitted to light his cigar at your candle, as the gas-light has gone out.