Our Anniversary. 



695 



symbolical of character, it is Mr. Wea- 

 thercock. His mind is a modern Pro- 

 teus, which is continually assuming some 

 new shape. He hates every thing old, 

 except his wine, and wishes every thing 

 to be perpetually young, except his uncle. 

 At Eton, the last edition of the Greek 

 Grammar was in his opinion always the 

 best, and at Oxford the wine-party which 

 he attended on Saturday far exceeded in 

 gratification that of the preceding Wed- 

 nesday. .This strange peculiarity has 

 grown with his growth and ripened with 

 his years. He idolizes the memory of 

 Keats and Kirke White, because they 

 died early, and has made up his mind to 

 hate Godwin, because he hath completed 

 his eightieth year. 



No man ever had so many amuse- 

 ments and occupations as Mr. Janus 

 Weathercock, or changed them with so 

 little apparent difficulty. He puts off an 

 old habit of thought or feeling, as Mr. 

 Yates does a lady's maid's dress, and 

 comes forward immediately, without the 

 least hesitation, in a totally different 

 character. 



At Eton he was the first of his dame's 

 " Eleven, 1 ' and played in the matches at 

 Lord's-ground. Day after day he might 

 be seen with his large brimmed straw 

 hat, toiling along the burning road to 

 the cricket-ground, with two miserable 

 fags carrying his bat and stumps. He 

 was never, unless during school-hours, 

 without his cricket jacket. He had six 

 bats, all of which were christened by 

 some endearing name ; one was Mer- 

 candotti, another was Brocard, a third 

 was Rosa, and a fourth Angelica. When 

 he came to Oxford he was asked to be- 

 long to the University club, but he re- 

 fused. Mr. Weathercock had given up 

 cricket ! He played at chess and read 

 Pool's Synopsis. The abstract and me- 

 taphysical studies were alone, he said, 

 worth the trouble of pursuit. He voted 

 the river a bore, and laughed aloud at 

 Milton and his mulberry tree. This was 

 in the winter, and the following summer 

 found Mr. Weathercock rowing against 

 time from Westminster-bridge to Ham- 

 mersmith, and writing a laudatory poper 

 about Milton and his recently-discovered 

 Treatise of Christian Doctrine in the 

 Oxford Journal. 



The mass of discordant information, 

 thus obtained, could not be expected to 

 act favourably upon the mind of Mr. 

 W'eathcrcoek. And it did not he be- 



gan, like Milton, by belonging to every 

 sect, and ended by belonging to none. 



In what manner Mr. Weathercock 

 subsisted during his early residence in the 

 metropolis we do not know, but as he con- 

 tributed to three magazines and seven 

 newspapers, it may be fairly supposed 

 that he could not have been many removes 

 from starvation. When our acquain- 

 tance with Mr. Weathercock commenced 

 a change had come over the spirit of his 

 fortunes. A relation, who had amassed 

 an immense fortune in the East Indies, 

 suddenly died upon his return to Eng- 

 land, (which, seeing that he had been 

 absent for 36 years, was, to say the least 

 of it, very unpatriotic) and most unac- 

 countably left Mr. Weathercock sole 

 heir to his fortune and estate. The ef- 

 fect produced . by the intelligence upon 

 the feelings of our friend may, in the ex- 

 pressive language of the newspapers, "be 

 more easily imagined than described." 

 His first act was to throw an article he 

 was then writing for some magazine 

 into the fire ; and his second, to take a 

 splendid mansion, which happened for- 

 tunately to be then vacant, in Grosveuor- 

 square. Almost all Mr. Weathercock's 

 peculiarities returned with his good 

 fortune, and many new companions 

 were added to the company. But 

 upon these we cannot stop tu dilate. 

 In every room throughout the house 

 you recognise the extraordinary, and, 

 if we may so speak, antithetical taste 

 of the accomplished proprietor. His 

 library is, perhaps, the most sump- 

 tuous in England. It has been built, 

 under his own superintendence, by Mr. 

 Nash; and the windows, which are 

 beautiful, have been painted from draw- 

 ings expressly made by Stanfield and 

 Grieve. Yet you cannot help re- 

 gretting the want of harmony observa- 

 ble in the furniture. In one part, for 

 instance, you see a magnificent marble 

 table, with elaborately wrought gold 

 legs, and exactly opposite to it an old 

 shabby-looking arm-chair, which Mr. 

 Weathercock says belonged to the poet 

 Gay, and was purchased by him at 

 Barnstable. His writing-table presents 

 a similar scene of picturesque confusion. 

 A ragged copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses, 

 without covers, is lying upon Lady 

 Emily StraUon's green morocco album : 

 and a recently published Treatise on 

 the Art of Conversation is neatly bound 

 up with Zimmerman on Solitude. 



