cent poems of Mr. Wordsworth, occasioned, as I would have it, by his less intimate communion of late with the friend of his youth;-all this would require, though it might justify, more time, labour, and delicacy of touch, than at present I can possibly afford it.

That to Coleridge and Wordsworth the poetry, the philosophy, and the criticism of the present day does actually owe its peculiar character, and its distinguishing excellence over that of the last century, those who would trace the origin of the present opinions back for thirty years would find no difficulty in believing. These two men, essentially different as they are in many respects, have been copied, imitated, and parodied by every poet who now lives. Lord Byron has owned his obligations to Mr. Coleridge, and the third Canto of "Childe Harold" could not have been written unless Wordsworth had lived before it. The author of "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" can best tell what poem was the motive of his own work, and the "Lady of the Lake" is indebted almost for the very words of many of its most admired passages to Wordsworth's Poems. I do not deny that there are many assignable causes of the neglect which the writings of Mr. Coleridge have met with; I have myself hinted above at the uncouth dress of his metaphysical meditations, and the general difficulty and hardness of his reasoning; but this censure does not apply to an immense portion even of " The Friend," or the first " Lay Sermon;" to the second Sermon not all;-and surely it is a little unreasonable to excommunicate the works of a man of such acknowledged excellence in most respects because of his obliquities in a few particulars.

It is not much to the purpose, but yet I cannot help adverting to his personal manners and qualities; for they are such as when once seen and felt have never been forgotten, or not reverenced and loved even by his enemies themselves. Gentle and patient to every one; communicative and sympathizing, you perceive at the very first glance that you are near an extraordinary and selfsubdued being; his powers of conversation have, I suppose, never been equalled; there is a fervid continuousness of discourse, a brilliancy and justness of images and similes which charm and convince every hearer; and a learning so deep, so various, so perfectly under command, that you may come away from an evening's conversation with him, with more curious facts, well-conceived explications, and ingenious reasonings upon them, than you could possibly gain from a week's reading. Those who have attended his Lectures on Shakspeare may form some idea of what I would express; but they cannot know all his winning fascination, all his almost infantine simplicity of manners, all his exquisite humour. I do not indulge myself in wilful flattery of this great man by these expressions; for it is little probable that a

Number of "The Etonian" should ever creep in between his Plato and his Bible; but I use them because they are justly his due; because they have been long and maliciously withheld or denied; and because, besides his universal claim for respect from his Genius and Eloquence, he has ties of another kind which assure him the love and esteem of

GERARD MONTGOMERY.

PEREGRINE'S SCRAP-BOOK.

No. II.

December 6.-Took leave of the Members of the Club, and arrived in London.

Dec. 7.-Saw it notified in the Papers that "yesterday morning his Majesty left Windsor for Town."

Dec. 13.-Received two letters of advice. The first from "a Whig and an old Etonian."-He is our very good friend, and deserves my most sincere thanks; but, being " an old Etonian," he must recollect that young Etonians have an hereditary attachment for hoaxing. The second is from " an old Etonian of from 1796 to 1801."-I am obliged to him for his suggestion, and will profit by it, should any future impression be found necessary. I must take this opportunity of observing, that under the numerous difficulties which our inexperience has to encounter, we trust our friend will not withhold from us any advice which may be of service to us in the prosecution of this work.

Dec. 16.-Received the following Song from a highly-valued Correspondent:

SPRING breathes hor first kisses on mountain and vale,
There's warmth in the sunbeam, and health in the gale;
And bright shine the blossoms, and green waves the bough,
And Earth in its beauty looks merrily now.

"Tis the season of gladness-yet gladness is not,

For where is the Maid who should gladden the spot?

The Morn in its loveliness bids us awake,

Noon flings its calm splendor on forest and brake;
And soft melts the Earth in the shadows of Even,
And the Star of the Twilight shines brightly in Heaven;
And Night summons neighbours to revel and ball—
But where is the Maid who should gladden them all?

I wander at Evening and dream of her eye;
I call on her name-but I hear no reply;
I gaze all around me-the country is fair,
But I beed not its beauties-for she is not there.
Oh! sad is the scene where my Mary is not,
Return to us, Maiden, and gladden each spot.

Dec. 19.-Received some stanzas on "Balaam"-not Blackwood's Balaam, but the Bible's Balaam. The author must get somebody to explain the term to him. We are unwilling to insert poems on Scriptural Themes, unless they have something extraordinary to recommend them.

Dec. 26. This day I, Peregrine Courtenay, King of Clubs and Editor of the Etonian, paid my first visit to Cambridge. N. B. Had excogitated in "the Telegraph" sundry Burtonian compositions in the way of Song, Sonnet, and Serenade, all ornamented with " antique Fanes," "hoary sages," "etherial contemplations;" but the sight of the town ("I shall offend if I describe") somewhat curbed my Pegasus, and I was finally recalled to sublunary considerations by my dinner in the Hall of St. John's.

Dec. 27.-After breakfast sallied forth incog. in quest of the Arch-Fiend Criticism.-Found him, with a smile on one side of his face and a frown on the other, in Mr. Deighton's shop. Many Gownsmen were lounging about, acting under his influence. Various, as usual, were the opinions expressed as to my own identity. I contained myself as much as possible; nevertheless I was somewhat provoked when I heard myself described by one Orator as a jovial Hampshire sportsman; and by another, as a silent sickly Gentleman with a long face. I had a fit of the sullens when a Johnian Pensioner averred that I was the son of a Linen-draper, and laughed outright when two Fellow-Commoners of Trinity in a whisper elevated me to the Peerage.

Dec. 31.-Found another old acquaintance, who is preparing for the Senate-House, and is alarmed beyond measure. Went to bed in the horrors, and dreamed of the Wooden Spoon.

January 1, 1821.-I am this morning in possession of matter sufficient for 156 pages of Letter-Press: but it seems probable that the appearance of No. IV. will be delayed till February, from causes which it is impossible for me to make public.

Jan. 3.-Left Cambridge with great regret. I have seen there very old edifices, and drank very old wine; met some very dear old friends, and found very kind new ones. Altogether I begin to rank Granta second only to Etona in my estimation, and look forward with tolerable complacency to a Pensioner's gown.

Jan. 7.-Upon my arrival in Town I find that my friends conceive the delay of No. IV. to be occasioned by want of matter.

Contributions have of course flocked in from all quarters. First I take up a Dwarf Epic in Whistlecrafts, 300 stanzas. I have only room for five. The Poem is entitled "The Civil Wars;" and abounds with broken heads.

*

"Courage and flight to-day alike are vain,

The brave and timid side by side are lying,
The wounded war-horse, with his broken rein,
'Midst pennons torn and shatter'd helms is flying,
Flinging the red gore from his reeking mane

Over the mingled mass of dead and dying;
And now and then bursts forth the stifled scream
Of some young warrior, with his life-blood's stream.

Night came around them with her purple veil,
And the Moon beam'd amid her stars serene,
Shedding her lustre, sorrowful and pale,

On the dim horrors of that gloomy scene;
Then widows wander'd with their voice of wail,
Where late the clamour of the war had been;
And then poor Mary hurried o'er the plain,
Calling on those that answer'd not again."

Mary's husband and brother embraced different sides of the quarrel, and she finds them both among the slain. Par conse

quence

she

goes

mad:

"Years past away; but from that dreadful hour,
No sound from Mary's lips was heard again,

The star of frenzy on her fate had pow'r,

And Madness revell'd in her wand'ring brain,
And now her tears flow'd forth in plenteous show'r,
And now a smile came o'er her in her pain;
And yet her anguish with her reason slept,
She knew not why she smil'd, nor why she wept.

She lov'd to wander 'neath the aged trees,
Where once had stray'd the objects of her love,
As if she heard their voices in the breeze,

Or saw their faces in their native grove;
Sometimes, beside the ripples of the seas,

Far from the sight of all men she would rove,
And wav'd her hand, and seem'd to beckon home
Some lonely skiff, that came not-would not come.

This could not last!-an aged Eremite

Before his homely dwelling found her lying;
Cold was her cheek, and all its frantic light

From her dim eye in dark'ning shades was flying;

The tender flow'r had met an early blight

That nipt its op'ning blossom!-she was dying,
And ere the Hermit stoop'd him down to pray,
That soul of wretchedness had passed away."

Mem.-To keep the rest as Balaam.

Jan. 20.-Returned to my court at Eton, and was glad to shake hands with the Members of the Club. Mem. Mindful of Cantabrigian hospitality, I must give orders that upon the Clubtable, on Feast-days, be placed a Pig's head with a lemon in his mouth. A brave accompaniment for our Punch-bowl.

Again I am fixed in this abode of early Talent and rising Patriotism. Again I seem to see the shades of my ancestors haunting these classic groves and smiling on the labours of their successors: again I feel the glow of hope, and the throb of emulation: again I look with enthusiasm on this "school-boy spot;" and every pulse within me beats a proud emotion as I reflect that I am an Etonian! Hail to the slumbers that refresh, to the studies that amuse, to the pleasures that delight; hail to the Spirits that swim within our Punch-bowl; hail to the Spirits that sit in merriment around it.

Jan. 23.-Received from a Trinity Correspondent a letter written at the close of the late examination. Our readers will be amused with the following extract :—

“ DEAR COURTENAY, Tis now night; the skies are hung With small bright stars innumerable, that seem

Heaven's eyelets, looking stilly down on man

And man's vain tumults. Many a studious head,
Its labour o'er and learn'd encounters, now
Rests on the pillow, that for many a day
Had toil'd from thorny premises t' extract,
By alchemy of subtlest argument,

Conclusions fair and smooth; had chas'd, thro' wilds
Of algebra, the shy retiring forms

Of x and z; or rung the mystic change
On notions and ideas, words and things,
And idol forms Baconian; or discours'd
Of angles plane, and ratios duplicate,
Inventions strange, and figures multiform,
Circle, and square, and shapely trine; or, arm'd
By Paley, with the social compact waged
Relentless war. Myself the while

W.

Jan. 26.-Received a letter from Robigo.-We trust our antiquarian will permit us to take a few liberties with his communication; and are in hopes to find a place for it in No. VI. This excuse must likewise serve several other much-honoured correspondents, as our press of matter renders it impossible to give that speedy insertion to every contribution which we could desire.

Jan. 27.-The Club met. I must refer my readers to the Secretary's account for particulars, and conclude No. IV. with

N. B. Those who object to our conviviality must have recourse to the theory that spirits are ideal.