Not so bad, for a methodist parson, or an illiterate American preacher; but for a careless, silly dog, as I know him to be, to affect gloomy and solemn, is, indeed, the height of the ridiculous. Besides,

"When number'd with the slumb'ring dead,

Whose realms he leaves no more,"

"A

is very far from being orthodox. No, it won't do, can't do, shan't do. Our next contribution is, let me see, Fragment, by G. G." I'll read this, and I hope it's not quite so sad a composition as his last.

"I was one evening last summer walking along a road leading to a populous town in the south of England: it was a heavenly evening in June; the sun was fast sinking beneath the thickly-wooded hill; not a cloud intercepted the azure expanse of the almost Italian sky, whilst no breath of wind murmured through the trees. Whilst I thus paced on in melancholy mood, indulging in the excitement of a distempered imagination, I was suddenly roused by the sound of horses apparently in their swiftest course."

Good heavens! I've read this at least a thousand times before now, and never take up a novel without finding an Italian sky, and a fine calm summer evening. I'll pass it over for the present, as I see it won't do, unless I cut off the prooemium, and go at once to the subject.

Next-" GOOD LOOKS AND GOOD TEMPER."

"How great the diff'rence 'twixt the face and mind,
How far good temper leaves good looks behind!
How oft beneath the mask of beauty's face,

A temper lurks, devoid of ev'ry grace!
Learn from the tale my moral Muse shall tell,
How Henry flourished, and Parmenio fell."

Mercy upon us, this is my own!

What a fool I was

not to know it at first! I'll begin No. V. with it. Here, Ingalton! Ingalton! Where can the fellow be gone to? Ingalton, I say! [Here Mr. Ingalton entereth, and standing at the door, boweth till his forelock toucheth the ground, saying, "Your servant, sir."] Here, Mr. Ingalton, I shall be obliged to you to give this to the printer, and let him set it up immediately, for the opening article in No. V.* [Exit, Mr. I. still bowing.] Well, now what's next. "Adventures of a Diamond, by O. P." Upon my honour, this fellow is too bad; he perfectly deluges me with his nonsense and stupidity. How does he begin? [reads.]

66

Although the literary world has been long since deluged with autobiographies and adventures, though a half-penny and a shilling, though a cork-screw and a monkey have, before now, written and published their lives, yet I cannot help thinking that a recital of the many scenes which I have witnessed, may be interesting to your readers."

That it won't, I'll answer for it: am I and my darling Kaleidoscope to be abused on account of this fellow's folly ? No! I'll not insert it; a cool fish, indeed! "Will be much obliged to the Editor to insert the following Adventures, Part I. and will send the rest during the course of next week." The deuce take his impudence; I shall not put it in; but stay, he is sometimes useful, so I'll give him a little consolation in the Common-place Book; (writes)—" Many thanks to the talented, clever, amiable, witty, agreeable author of the "Adventures of

I have just discovered that Mr. I. had the incomparable ingratitude and baseness to lose my article on the way! Shameful!-ED. KAL.

a Diamond." We regret, however, that they are too long for insertion in their present state, and if abridged, they would lose the principal part of their interest? Hope for further communications." So there's an end of you, Mr. O. P.; and now to proceed to C. H. [Here Mrs. Ingalton enters, and says, "If you please, sir, the church bells have stopt ringing."] Stopt? Stopt, did you say? Then I must be off. [Exit, EDITOR, in a great hurry knocking poor Mrs. Ingalton down, and running off without his hat.]

Taken down by the Printer's Devil, who was listening at the key-hole.

THE GRAVE

How dark is the grave, and how still is the tomb,
And how dismal the night owl's abode !

How black is the cloud, and how deep is the gloom
That encompass the mouldering sod.

Not a groan-not a sigh from the house of the dead,
Wakes the echo, or hangs in the air :

O'er that dwelling her wings solemn silence hath spread,
And the raven of night broodeth there.

How narrow the comfortless home of the dead,

How cold is their pillow of clay !

There, loathsome corruption her dwelling hath made,

And the slimy worm gorges her prey.

G. R.

THE SCHOLARSHIP.

Poor Richard Bobkin, with the squinting eye,
For the Newcastle scholarship would try.

What, he? Oh yes; you know one gets a name, `
Is called a sap," and has a studious fame.
And then "papa" and all his cronies chime,
"Dick went up for the scholarship last time;
"You know my son must be a little clever,
"Or else he never would have tried; no, never."
Thus speaks papa, and then awaits the hum
Giv'n by his friend, who thinks it still "hum-drum."
"Your son was in the eight?" puts in a guest.
"Not quite-but he was ninth-Oh! ninth, at least."
That's a mischance palaver can't repress,
For facts as facts will speak-but I digress.
When Bobkin took this freak into his head,
It just occurred to him he had not read;
So putting on some grave and studions looks,
He asked his tutor, and he got some books.
I could not tell, and so I will not try,
How oft he slumbered o'er Theology;
How oft he lay outstretch'd in snoring ease
Instead of poring at Euripides;

And how he proved that there was no adhesion
'Twixt Eton readers, and the writers Grecian;
And how he swore that he was sure that no man
Or boy could understand "that dirty Roman:"
But whether Virgil, Horace, Livy, Tully,

Up to this time I have not learnt it fully.

What books he opened-not what books he read;

For like the papers, clasics he addressed,

Skipped what he did not like—and skimmed the rest.

About St Matt. he saw a dozen facts,

Oped Tomline's Articles and Valpy's Acts.

Of all the rest he knew no more than this;
"Historiarum Lib. Thucydidis,"
"Annales Taciti :" "Orationes
Et alia opera M. T. Ciceronis."

Not a word more he really was not able
To cast a glance beyond the frightful label.
"Virgil, by Heyne," "Clarke's Homeri Ilias,"
Merely to look at, made him " monstrous bilious"
Time flies apace; and Lenten comes anon;
The week, the awful week is drawing on:
Monday's arrived; 'tis eight by Eton clock,
With horrid clash the fatal doors unlock.
Absence is called; all answer to their names.
But where is Bobkin? safe within his dame's.
He just has seen (what he had seen before)
He could not try,—'twas really such a bore;
So changed his side-and gave a hearty snore :
But lest it seem too bad, the stupid lout
Swears he is ill, and sur le champ-stays out;
Then thus he writes to keep papa from storming,
And swearing that his Richard wants reforming-
"I should have tried, and at least got the medal,
But at the very time I lay in bed ill!"

E. I. A.

COMMON-PLACE BOOK.-No. 5.

Received from "R. X. X." a long poem in heroics, beginning with

"I tell the tale as it was told to me,
But cannot vouch for what I did not see;
Howe'er, if you desire it, I agree," &c.

And running all in triplets. Beg to be excused.