own crown and sceptre, and St. Cloud-but I think no such thing

After much inquisitiveness on the part of Napoleon, and much embarrassment on the part of the Captain, the former signified his intention of sending an Article of four or five pages every now and then, if the Ministers of the King of Clubs and the King of England would give him leave. His informant observed, that Politics could not be admitted. “ Ah ha!” said the Querist,

and do you think I can write nothing but Politics ? Speak for me (turning to Madame Bertrand), do I not write delightful Sonnets ?” “ Sire,” said Montholon, “let us hope you will soon have something better to do." « C'est selon !” said Bonaparte, significantly.

March 22.---From a long Poem on Dogs, which I do not much admire, I extract the following lines on Munito, with whom many of our readers are, doubtless, well acquainted. I had a great mind to make no extract at all, for I am rather piqued that the author has talked about Kings, and Queens, and Pam, without introducing a compliment.

יר

“ Though great Spadille, or that famed prince of Loo,

All conqu’ring Pam, turn backward from his view,
Swift in the noble chace, Munito tracks
The Royal Guests amid Plebeian packs :
And though the cards in mix'd confusion lie,
And mock the vigour of a human eye,
Munito still, with more than magic art,
Knows Kings from Knaves, the Diamond from the Heart !
Happy were men, if thus in graver things,
Our Knaves were always parted from our Kings !
Happy the maid, who in Love's maze can part
The Miser's Diamond from the Lover's Heart !”

Corrected the proof of “ Tancred and Sigismunda," and had struck it off for No VII.

Sent “ The Serenade” to press. Our readers will ex

cuse a few trifling inaccuracies of rhyme, &c. I need not bring to their recollection

“ Ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis Offendar maculis."

Whist in the evening. Held his Majesty nearly every deal, and won accordingly.

March 24.---Read over several little compositions, by 1. I. G. I am sorry that it is not in my power to avail myself of his kindness in such a degree as I could wish; but, as we allow 20 pages only to Old Etonians, we are obliged to be very choice in the selection. The following, I think, is as good a specimen as I can select :

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

“ Go, tuneful bird, and quickly pass,

To wake my Emma's eyes from sleep;
Go tell her that there are, alas !

Some eyes that only wake to weep.

Go tell her that there are on earth

Some hearts that only wake to sigh ;
And when the morn renews her birth,

Some souls that only long to die.”

Received the following lines “to the Rainbow," by R. S. By-the-by, we intended to have assured him, before this, that the jest about “bamming” was only inserted for the purpose of calling attention to some very pretty lines, and at the same time giving a colour to the singularity of their style.

For protection and rest, 'mid aërial war,

Could I fly to thy soothing embrace ;
I should find what appeared so lovely afar,

But in tears and illusion to cease.

So 'mid sorrows of earth, though festivity smile,

As a Heaven-sent comforter luring ;
Its embrace is delusion, its loveliness guile,

When attain'd nought but danger ensuring.

Fare thee well! 'Mid affliction to him while I bow,

Who thy form a love-token hath given :
I'll remember that hope and repose are, as now,
Never found-save in Patience and Heaven."

March 25.-Went to the Devil in a high wind.

March 26.---Corrected the proof of “Le Blanc on Interest." An article on the subject was promised, if I recollect right, by Mr. Burton. I cannot imagine what made him relinquish a topic so suited to his taste and studies.

Received some Stanzas from F. J. He must excuse some possible delay in their insertion, as the limits, which we allow to foreign contributions, are hardly wide enough for the favours we receive.

I have received a letter, signed “A Friend at Westminster," which I shall answer in this place :

SIR ---I am obliged to our Westminster readers for the interest they take in “ The Etonian," and beg leave to assure them that the professions we have made are no puff, but that 60 pages of every Number are bonâ fide the production of Etonians of the present day. Moreover, I believe that no Publication has been carried on at Eton, which has not admitted foreign assistance.

I am, Sir,
Yours, &c.

PEREGRINE COURTENAY.

March 27.--Having a vacant page, I will fill it with another little composition by my poor friend :--

“ A Flower, in Nature's fairest dress,

Bloom'd on its parent tree ;
Brightly it blush'd in loveliness-

That blush was not for me !
Oh! not for me, right well I knew ;
And yet I watch'd it where it grew,

Fondly and fearfully,
And often from my heart I pray'd
That gentle Flower might never fade.

I could have borne to see it bloom

By other hands caress’d,
Giving its blossoms and perfume

To deck another's breast;
And when that Flower, in future days,
Had met my melancholy gaze,

Still living and still bless'd,
I should have spoke a calmer tone,
And made its happiness my own.

But thus to find it hurl'd away

By him to whom it clung,
To watch it withering day by day,

So beautifnl and young !
To see it dying, yet repress
The agony of tenderness

That lingers on the tongue !
Alas! and doth it come to this,
Mary! thy cherish'd dream of bliss !

Gone is the colour from thy cheek,

The lustre from thine eye ;
Thy brow is cold-thy step is weak,

Thy beauty passeth by!
In ignorance supremely bless'd,
Thy child is slumbering on thy breast,

And feels not,“ she will die 1"
Alas! alas I-I know not how
I speak of this so coldly now!

I love to muse on thee by night !

And, while ny bosom aches,
There is a something of delight

In thinking why it breaks ;
Therefore doth Reason come in vain ;-
I doat on this consuming pain,

Cling to the wounds it makes,
Talk-dream of it, and find relief
E’en in the bitterness of grief.

Where are ye now, ye coldly wise,

Who bid the passions sleep,
Who scorn the mourner when he sighs,

And call it crime to weep ?
Yours is the lifelessness of life ! -
I will not change this inward strife

For all your precepts deep,
Nor lose, in my departing years,
The pain—the bliss—the throb of tears !"

E. M.

March 28.--At the Printing-Office. Mr. M‘Kechnie (a very worthy gentleman, and a particular friend of mine,) asked for what day No VII. should be announced? If I do not remember, I am afraid my Readers will, that No IV. (our last Holiday Number) was not out altogether so soon as it ought to have been. Now the Holidays are again coming, and I am afraid of making promises.

Shakspeare, as somebody has before observed in the course of this Number, has said “ tell truth, and shame the Devil !" In the present instance I fear one might say, with greater propriety,“ tell lies, and shame the Devil.” However, that the Devil nay never again have to blush for the lies of Peregrine Courtenay, I will make a safe promise--Yes! I pledge myself that

N°VII. shall be published on the first of May--if possible.