that had preceded him. He was a tall, thin personage, with a kind of Joseph Surface expression, and a low, subdued tone of voice. Gliding up to the table, he leant over the ballotbox, and delivered in a very smooth, and unembarrassed manner, a long, and very elegant oration, in opposition to those of almost all the rest of the speakers. He seemed to receive great attention from the house, and his arguments were answered at some length by the opener of the debate, who rose after him to combat the different positions of his adversaries. A great deal of sharp-shooting and quibbling repartee now took place, which was interrupted by loud cries of "Question" from the house, upon which the president made a sign, and we visitors were bowed out with great courteousness. Such are my recollections of the Society Debaters, and I rejoice much at the length of time that it has lasted, and hope that it may continue for a long while, as favourable to the developement of talent in the school, as it now sems to be. I am, Mr. Editor, your sincere admirer, L. Who has not felt its mystic flame Of love-inspiring ray, Once concentrated 'round his breast, Best emblem of divinity, Bequeathed to human kind! How sensitive! how true thou speak'st How full-how full of Cupid's fire! I yield, my love, those eyes have pierced, AMATOR. THE EDITOR AND HIS PORTFOLIO. The EDITOR is discovered, having just entered Mr. Ingalton's back room. The table, chairs, and floor, are covered with a profusion of Articles, and Love Songs, to such an extent, that the poor EDITOR seems at a loss where to begin. At length he ensconces himself in an old arm chair with a leather bottom, which had once been red, and with his left elbow on a ream of foolscap, (in preparation for No. V.) for some moments gives himself up to thought, and looks poetical. After a sufficiently long reverie, he pulls from under a huge pile of MSS. a large black portfolio, filled to repletion, and with difficulty held together by three pieces of red tape: having opened this, he commences a perusal of the contributions left during the preceding day, some extracts from which, with his remarks on them, follow:-— TIME.-Twenty-five minutes past two, on a whole holiday. N. B.-The Editor was enjoying a sentimental walk after twelve. Editor.-A-well and a-lack-a-day! here's a pretty to do! was ever poor mortal so bored as I am! Here are, let me see, there are one, two, three-eleven packages to be looked over, and ten to one that there's a thing worth looking at in the whole collection. Let's see-imprimis, a "Letter" from Francis Russell. I'm glad to see you my old boy, for there's generally something amusing in your letters, and at any rate, you are the least tiresome of all our prose contributors. But to commence:- [reads.] "Dearly beloved, or well beloved Editor, "Since I last wrote to you, a vacancy has occurred in our society; and as we find it difficult to get a recruit worthy of our high character, I address myself to you, hoping, that by advertising in your periodical we may succeed. Our late member was Mr. Bobbum, the butcher, who, forgetting that his honour was at stake, has rendered himself incapable of any longer cleaving to the Minerval, by having got drunk the night before our last meeting, and coming to it seedy; and "sede vacante," in consequence of this, we are in want of another member. I fear it will be difficult to meet the wishes of the society so completely as Mr. Bobbum did, who, to a competent skill in English composition adds a fat lot of knowledge of Poetæ Greasy," &c. &c. &c. We have heard too much of your Minerval already, Mr. Russell, so you must excuse the insertion of this; besides every one complains of the number of puns which have already appeared in our pages, and therefore we What's next? "Verses must let them restf or a little. on Eton, by the author of Spring." [reads.] "Eton! I would sing of thee, Where with plaintive melody Philomela fills the grove With sad story of her love; Sitting by the chrystal rill, Whence the waters quick distill From the neighbouring rocks, and swell And swiftly murmur through the plain Where Neptune and the nereids reign." "Where Neptune and the nereid's reign." "Where Neptune and the nereids reign." "Which Newton never understood." Bah! more like a second edition of Spring; or I should rather say a set of common-places, called out of the "sense" of the fourth-form and the "number" of the remove. I'll not treat my readers to any more of these, so instead of filling up with them, I'll keep them for more necessary purposes. So I hope I've disposed of P. Q. for sometime, at least, and he has our best wishes that he may be improved by the next time he writes for the Kaleidoscope. But what can this package contain that seems of such enormous size? There must be dissertations and essays to suffice for the next six months. Pheugh! "An imitation of Lucian's Sale of Lives." [reads.] MERCURY, H, AND BUYER. Merc.-Who'll buy? who'll buy? Mr. H. the Scotch quack, to be sold without delay: who'll buy? Never such another opportunity for any man, rich or poor, to make his fortune by mere economy, and attending to the gentleman's lessons. Going! going! Buyer.-Pray, friend Mercury, may it be permitted us to interrogate the sapient gentleman, and hear what are his accomplishments, and what his claims to public attention? Merc.-Be it so; for in truth, friend, this privilege is permitted to all men. Do you, therefore, O H-, come down from the tribunal on which you stand, and answer the questions of the buyer. Buyer.—Pray, friend, what are the qualifications which you boast? H—.—Truly I am a man of considerable consequence, and by no means to be passed over in silence." Well, friend Theophilus, I wonder you're not tired of passing over in silence by this time. Meanwhile, we'll pass you over in silence, and on some future occasion will weigh your merits; but in the interim we must go to the next parcel, which, if we mistake not, is from the author of the "Poor Man's Burial." I hope he's not quite so dolorose to-day as he was a month ago. What's his subject?" Tempus edax rerum."-A common-place, every-day subject, as if Etonians had nothing to do but read his melancholy, lack-a-daisical effusions! However, I may as well read it, too, perhaps. "What can resist destructive Time? No! Human riches fast decay, E'en as an April shower. Man's riches, honours, all have fled When number'd with the slumb'ring dead, Whose realms he leaves no more." |