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Grief conies around me in mine early years,

Yet smiling faces round my hearth I see,
And merry voices echo in mine ears

But what are these—what is the world to me?

0. J.

a

Feb. 10.--Received a letter from Baldwin, soliciting the co-operation of the Club, in the event of the discontinuance of “The Etonian.” Shall be happy to oblige Mr. Baldwin, as far as I am concerned; but Montgomery is hand and glove with Mr. Christopher North ; and Sir Francis and Sterling are severally under engagements to the Edinburgh and Quarterly.

Feb. 12.- Received some stanzas on Whistling," from R. S. I am quite puzzled by the extraordinary character of the lines, and half suspect that the author is only bamming us. However, there is something singular in the composition, and my readers shall therefore have a specimen. The verses are as wild as their subject :

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What! blame thee, child,

Of the woodland wild,
Who cherupest now so cheerily?

Oh! warble again

Your artless strain,
That plays on my heart so merrily.

A crown I'll entwine

Of eglantine, On your

little brown head to glisten; Its pearl shall be dew, And ruddy its hue,

For, my bard of the grove, I'll pluck it for you, E’er the Sun be awake and risen.

And bright though it be

When I give it to thee,
Sweet child of content simplicity!

Its blush will lorn

As the Moon at dawn,
At the burst of thy soul's felicity.

Feb. 14.-Valentine's Day. Surprised that I have not received any darts and flames. Still

, more surprised that I have not received any “blackguards” and “scoundrels.” Had thoughts of writing a paper upon the custom of the day, but the subject is too trite.

Two o'clock, P.M.-All college is in commotion. In Long Chamber there are consultations, and parties, and cabals. I saw a gownsman looking out complacently upon an unfolded paper; like Alexander, he sighed and looked, sighed and looked, sighed and looked, and sighed again.” He became alternately as pale as the Bath post, and as black as the characters it bore. This is a mystery to me! Feb. 15.—The mystery is unravelled. A young

Gentleman is displeased at receiving a billet-doux. This is surprising. But it is still more surprising that he suspects “The Etonian" of its manufacture. He threatens us with a quire of paper for the sake of the Postage. I hope it may be blank. I shall be angry if I am obliged to pay and read too.

Feb. 17.-I hope my readers will be pleased with the following Song:

Hark upon the passing gale
Philomela's plaintive wail !
Feelings how serene and tender
Does the lonely music render!
Lady, lift thy downcast eye,
Leila, love, and tell me why?

Mark the tints of silver, made
By the Moon on yon cascade ;
How those fleeting tirts impart
Consolation to the heart !
Why can Nature, thus control ;
Leila, say, my secret soul ?

'Tis that in the trembling notes Love's pure spirit softly floats,

"Tis that in the moonbeam's ray
Love delights to hold his play ;
'Tis that in the world I see,
Leila, nought but love and thee.

Feb. 19.-Received from Oxford a large parcel of prose and verse. I am very much pressed for room, nevertheless I am particularly requested by the Club (on the immediate suggestion of Rowley), to insert the two contributions with which we are most pleased.

“A Collar of Brawn, with M. B.'s compliments.”
A Barrel of Sausages, with Lord N- 's best wishes.”

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Feb. 20.—The authorship of the above-mentioned Valentine is fixed, I understand, upon Gerard Montgomery. Mr. Bellamy fancies himself suspected, and is rather alarmed for the consequences. He has purchased a smart little pistol, nailed a sovereign to the wall of his apartment, and practises three hours a-day. He says he is not much afraid, for “ he can hit George to a nicety.”

Feb. 25.-Martin Sterling slanged me for being satirical. All the P. C. articles were attacked one after the other :-“ Lovers' Vows,” “Politeness and Politesse, “ A Certain Age,” “ Not at Home.”—Golightly came to my assistance. “Mr. Sterling," said he, “let me give you a little information. There is as little truth in your remarks as there is in Lovers' Vows; neither Politeness nor Politesse can bear you any longer: no one should talk in this style who is not of a Certain Age; and if you persist in it, I shall recommend to Mr. Courtenay to give you a flat Not at Home.” Mr. Hodgson remarked that Mr. Golightly was a flat for supposing any thing flat could come from the President. "Lozell laughed, and Oakdey said “Pshaw."

Feb. 26.--Transcribed a few stanzas by E. M. They were written soon after the lady's marriage. They were composed in a more tranquil moment, and breathe a

more subdued spirit_than those which were inserted in the Scrap-Book, No. I.

I do not weep—the grief I feel

Is not the grief that dims the eye ;
No accents speak, no tears reveal

The inward pain that cannot die.

Mary! thou know'st not, none can know

The silent woe that still must live ;
I would not change that silent woe

For all the joy the world can give.

Yet, by thine hair so lightly flowing,

And by thy smiling lips, I vow,
And by thy cheek so brightly glowing,

And by the meekness of thy brow,

And by those eyes, whose tranquil beam

So joyfully is wont to shine,
As if thy bosom could not dream

Of half the woe that preys on mine,

I do not murmur that another

Hath gain’d the love I could not wake ;
I look on him as on a brother,

And do not hate him—for thy sake.

And, Mary, when I gaze on thee,

I think not on my own distress,
Serene—in thy serenity,

And happy—in thine happiness.

Feb. 27.— The King of Clubs has too much vanity to withhold from the world Miss Harrison's Valentine, although the habits of procrastination in which the fair Authoress indulges (habits by the way in which his Majesty occasionally participates) have caused it to reach him much after its day. The time I am sure is not far distant, when to the names of a Baillie, an Edgeworth, an Inchbald, and a Morgan, Criticism will add that of Fanny Harrison.

MISS HARRISON'S VALENTINE.

“Nec sum adeo informis."-VIRG.

Hail to his Majesty of Clubs !-all hail

His manly figure, and his motley robe.
Hail to his face although it's much too pale ;

Hail to his faulchion, and his belted globe!
I love his look, where fascinations rove;

I love his crown, whatever ills betide it;

I love the club that Fate hath fix'd beside it,
Like Robur squatting by the side of Jove ;
I love his thin straight wis, and much I prize

His great black eyebrows, and his small white nose,

His stunted beard, the buckles in his shoes,
His round mustachios, and his pointed eyes.
I love his tout ensemble-e'en his crimes,
His puns, his punch, his reasonings, and his rhymes !

Feb. 28.--Gerard gave us, from a Cambridge correspondent, the following whimsical imitation, or rather parody, of Horace:

"Integer vitæ scelerisque purus," &c.-Hor.

The man, my GERARD, arm'd with native strength,
And of his own worth conscious,needs no aid
Of venal critic, or ephemeral puff
Prelusive, or satiric quiver stored
With poison'd shafts defensive: fearless he
Sends forth his work, essay, or ode, or note,
On crabb'd Greek play, or squib political.
Him nor the fierce Eclectic's foaming page
Aught troubles, nor the uncourteous Times, nor yet
The Journal, which, misnamed of Classios, deals
Its three-months' errors out. For me of late
In Johnian walks sole wandering, while the thoughts
Of Emily beyond my wonted bounds
Drew me excursive, a reviewer stern
Encount'ring, with kind words of courtesy.
Accosted bland, and me, though ill prepared
For critic fight, assail'd not ; scribe, like whom
Vak-crown'd Germania from her warlike shore

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