his only wealth, he has agreed to supply articles at the moderate charge of twelve lines for a shilling-I will not insult him with saying, at a penny a line.

Richard Richardson completes the editorial quartette. He is the story inventor, tale contriver, and regular essayist. In order to fit himself for this place he has purposely read over, for about the twentieth time, Scott's Novels, the Spectator, et hoc genus omne; so that he hopes to dish up something nice in his way, for the public now and then. I have had a peep into his portfolio, which is already bursting its strings, as if from impatience to vent its contents, and shower them down upon Etonians. With regard to Richard's personal appearance, the most extraordinary feature is, that he is not at all extraordinary. A very plain-looking youth, with all due submission be it said, is he. His head would attract no notice, but from the well-practised eye of a Vimont or a Deville: but the inside is good, although the outside, to the unphrenological examiner may appear common.

And such, my dear public, are the four who have determinately sat down with the intention of administering to the literary appetite of Eton. And thus, hoping that numerous other contributors will contend for the admission of their productions into these pages, I beg to subscribe myself

The public's most obedient servant,

LT

NOTE BY THE EDITOR.

We have inserted our correspondent's communication, but we do not feel answerable for its statements; on the contrary we affirm that he knows nothing at all about us; inasmuch as our initials are not L T and we ourselves are by no means the ugly brute he would have us. Indeed, we have been told, that we were a pretty boy, and shall be a handsome man. In the mean time, we are the public's most obedient hobydehoy.

We take advantage of this Note, publicly to state, that the only occasion for the starting of this periodical, was, the cessation of the Magazine, at which we were exceeding sorrowful, for the little world of Eton did much desire its continuance, and ourselves among the number. We have the vanity to hope, however, that the " KALEIDOSCOPE" will supply its loss, and serve as a new channel in which to guide the Etonian stream of literature.

Communications will be thankfully received, and invariably noticed, though we hold in our hands the sovereign power of inserting, or not, lucubrations at our pleasure. Gentlemen are requested to send their names, together. with their contributions, modestly in a letter, or boldly without a disguise.

THE

KALEIDOSCOPE.

No. I.

Monday, January 28th, 1833.

WIT AND WISDOM,

A TALE.

How hard the different taste of man to hit!
For some like wisdom, some prefer the wit:
Just as, when Christmas comes with holly leaf,
Some take the turkey, and some take the beef.
How happy, then, it falls for human kind
That here they're separate, and there combined.
This table groans with beef and turkey stored,
The single dainty marks the humbler board;
Wisdom and wit in one, in others fit—

Wit without wisdom, wisdom without wit.

But should two nymphs one swain with ardour strike,

Equal in beauty, but in mind unlike;

How should the youth the happy medium hit

"Twixt witless wisdom, and an unwise wit?

How should he choose-a choice which lasts for life,—
Which of the twain would make the happier wife?
How hard the task, found Pollio, hapless youth--
Let his experience warn you of the truth.

Once, at a county ball,—no matter where,—
Young Pollio saw a sweet and lovely pair;
O'er every feature playful beauty beamed,
And each a Goddess, not a mortal seemed:
So well the trap, so well the bait prepared,
No wonder simple Pollio was ensnared.

For he, instructed not in nature's school,
Though wise in law, in woman was a fool;
Though dubious causes crown'd him with success,
Of man nought knew he, and of woman less.

With wistful eyes he track'd them through the room,
And mark'd the varying of their natural bloom;
With what a grace they thread the tortuous maze,
Bright as the stars that circle as they blaze !—
Their heavenly form seem'd echoed in their mind,
Without the least, the smallest grace, resigned:
But with a modest air of unpretence,

From this beam'd wit, from that flow'd sterling sense.
Still were his eyes attracted to the spot,

And all seem'd vacancy, where they were not;
Their carriage waits!—a minute-and they're gone,
And Pollio stands, in midst of crowds, alone:
One lovely pair in his fond eyes was all—
As if one couple made a county ball.

Seven years passed by--so Pollio would speak,
Though common mortals call'd the time, a week ;-
Seven years passed by-so Pollio would swear,
Ere he again beheld the lovely pair.

Once he had view'd them with a stranger's eye,
His tongue was voiceless, though his heart beat high;
But now he meets them, as no more unknown,
And clasps their proffer'd hand within his own :
How his blood tingles when their palms unite,
Lovers may guess, but poets dare not write;