Indeed, to one of a melancholy though not discontented turn of mind, there is something not disagreeable, nay more, there is something pleasing, in the departure of Summer, and the approach of the more rugged season:-the former, indeed, it must be acknowledged, excites our spirits to the highest pitch of buoyancy and mirth; but the latter awakes all those melancholy yet pleasing emotions inherent in a contemplative mind. The glow of the summer's day, and the vivid colours of nature, fill us with a momentary burst of cheerfulness; the sporting of the cattle, the song of the birds, and the apparent enjoyment of the whole creation, from man to the butterfly, communicate to us a sympathetic pleasure, arising from the feeling that every thing around us is happy and contented. Yet there is something in the dry chill of the wintry atmosphere, in the hollow melancholy sound of a December storm, which rouses in our minds the sweet sensations of pity and of charity, suggested, perhaps, by the recollection that there are some, who, less fortunate than ourselves, are exposed to wander, without a home, during the inclemencies of the season. We are more pleased with the confidence reposed in us by the unfortunate wanderer of the feathered tribe, whom the frost has deprived of his food, and who, trusting to our hospitality, plaintively demands relief at our window, than by his more lively song during the happier season of summer. We feel more pleasure at hearing the harsh chip of the sparrow, when we have made him happy by scattering before him the crumbs which have perhaps saved him from starvation, than we derive from the most melodious song of the nightingale. I would freely exchange the glowing tint and the warm air of a summer's evening, and the emotions of love and pleasure which it excites, for the lonely silence of the winter night, when the clear sky appears to exhibit the whole immensity of the creation, and fills the mind with ideas of religion and eternity. It is at this time that the wisdom and the beneficence of the Deity, the greatness of his power, the beauty of his works, are most conspicuous: we feel an internal satisfaction at being ourselves a part, however insignificant, of that immense system which then presents itself to our view in all its splendor and magnificence. It is when this most beautiful of prospects is before our eyes, that the mind is most turned towards contemplation and to thoughts of a more serious nature. It seems then, indeed, that

"Our mind, Expanded by the Genius of the spot, Has grown colossal."

But there are some who are not alive to the feelings we are describing. Winter for these has other charms, less sublime, but perhaps not less agreeable. Can any one, who is not dead to the

delights of society, refuse to acknowledge the pleasure of a long winter evening, and the enlivening blaze of the fire, which seems to communicate its cheerfulness to the circle around it? I cannot express myself better on this subject than by quoting two passages from a poet who seems to have felt the true pleasures of these social moments :

"Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round;
And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
Which cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in."

"The poet's or historian's page by one

Made vocal for the amusement of the rest;

The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out,
And the clear voice symphonious yet distinct,

And in the charming strife triumphant still,

Beguile the night."

We have even a greater pleasure in the cold rays of the sun during the Winter, than we experience from the overpowering glow of the noonday in July. Never during the meridian of their splendor, did we enjoy them with such real delight as when we catch their fleeting glances upon a sunny terrace. They are then like some token by which the memory of a departed friend is brought back to our imagination, for whom our affection is increased by the reflection that he is with us no more.

M. S.

PEREGRINE'S SCRAP-BOOK.

NO. I.

Nov. 16.-Received a huge parcel of Epigrams. The following struck me as a new interpretation of a passage in Shakspeare:

"Killing myself to die upon a kiss."

"A crabbed couplet-but the meaning's this;
The man must starve who dines upon a kiss."

Nov. 19.-Received a large packet of Poetry on various subjects. The following is pretty and simple :

Nov. 20.-The post brought me a large quantity of contributions, principally comic. The author, X. L., is requested to make more use of the file. The following jeu d'esprit has some humour :

MARRIAGE.

What, what is Marriage? Harris, Priscian,

Assist me with a definition.

"Oh!" cries a charming silly fool,
Emerging from her boarding-school,
"Marriage is-love, without disguises,
It is a-something that arises

From raptures, and from stolen glances,
To be the end of all Romances;
Vows-quarrels-moonshine-babes,—but hush!
I mustn't have you see me blush."

"Phsaw," says a modern modish wife,
"Marriage is splendor, fashion, life;
A House in Town, and Villa shady,
Balls, diamond bracelets, and 'my Lady;'
Then for Finale, angry words,

'Some people's'-'obstinates,' absurds!'
And peevish hearts, and silly heads,
And oaths, and 'betes,' and separate beds."

An aged Bachelor, whose life
Has just been "sweeten'd" with a wife,
Tells out the latent grievance thus,
Marriage is odd! for one of us
'Tis worse a mile than rope or tree,
Hemlock, or sword, or slavery;
An end at once to all our ways,
Dismission to the one-horse chaise;
Adieu to Sunday can, and pig,
Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig;
Our friends turn out,-our wife's are clapt in,
"Tis 'exit Crony,'-'enter Captain.'
Then hurry in a thousand thorns,
Quarrels and compliments-and Horns.
This is the yoke,-and I must wear it;
Marriage is-Hell, or something near it."

"Why, Marriage," says an Exquisite,
Sick from the supper of last night,
"Marriage is—after one by me!
I promised Tom to ride at three.—
Marriage is-Gad! I'm rather late!
La Fleur!-my stays,-and chocolate!
D-n the Champagne !—so plaguy sour,
It gives the head-ache in an hour;
Marriage is really though, 'twas hard
To lose a thousand on a card;

Sink the old Duchess!-three Revokes!
Gad! I must fell the Abbey oaks :
Mary has lost a thousand more;
Marriage is-Gad! a cursed bore!
Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan,
Rises indignant from his throne,
And mocks their self-reviling tears,
And whispers thus in Folly's ears:-
"Oh! frivolous of heart and head!
If strifes infest your nuptial bed,
Not Hymen's hand, but Guilt, and Sin,
Fashion, and Folly, force them in ;
If on your couch is seated Care,
I did not bring the scoffer there;

If Hymen's torch is feebler grown,

The hand that quench'd it was your own;
And what I am, unthinking elves!

Ye all have made me for yourselves!"

Nov. 21.-Found on my table a cwt. of Love Verses. Burnt them.-Mem. To advise the members of the Club not to adore more than two at a time-even in Poetry-An exception must be made in favour of Gerard.

Paid a visit at Dr. D'urfey's.-Letitia wanted to bore us with some poetry ;-obliged to tell her we received no contributions from Ladies. N. B. This is not the fact, an exception being made in Resolution VI. in favour of our fair friends.

Received and burnt several letters from Candidates for admission into the "King of Clubs."

Read an Epigram from Sir F. Wentworth.-The joke was, that the King of Clubs took all mankind for his subjects. Emendaturis Ignibus.

Nov. 23.-Dined out.-Wasn't known for the Editor.-Kept snug, and heard various observations.-One Gentleman abused Beppo" and "Godiva." N. B. Sorry for his taste.-Another wasn't sure, but he had been told, and he in some measure believed, that the King of Clubs was all fiction. N. B. Sorry for

VOL. I.

R

his penetration.-Another, residing at Eton, had never seen " the Etonian." N. B. Very sorry for him altogether.

Nov. 24.-Met some of the Club at Breakfast.-The conversation turned on Alliteration.-Lozell quoted a line from Shakspeare quite in his own style :

"As will the rest, so willeth Winchester."

Met two old Etonians at Ingalton's, making conjectures on the subject of the Authors of the Etonian.-Assured them that I was Peregrine Courtenay;-they would not believe me.-One of them asserted that he had been an intimate friend of Courtenay's these last six years, and that he had parted from him not two minutes ago at the Christopher. The other laid claim to an acquaintance with Peregrine of equal standing, but maintained that the worthy Chairman had gone off to King's College four years ago. Mem. To consult our Attorney-General upon the measures proper to be taken with these impostors. Looked over two light compositions from X. C.-Extracted a part of one of them. The lines are really very creditable to a young writer. Hope to see more of X. C.

"O ask me not, Ellen, why quickly starts

The tear to my eye when thine image is gone;
You know when the light of the Sun departs
The dew-drop of Evening comes swiftly on.

*

The worm that delights to illume the dark*
When the mantle of Evening descends in state,
But lights up the ray of her lonely spark

To allure by the splendor her roving mate.

Thus the spark of Affection, all pure, all bright,

Though cruel afar from these arms you roam,
In this bosom shall burn with unfading light,

And O! may it light thee, dear Wanderer!-home!"

Nov. 25.-Walked up to our Publisher's.-Played "the Devil" for half an hour.-Mr. C. K. remarkably sanguine.-Sale of No. II. very good. N. B. Found a "character" for Golightly's "Eve of Publication."-Took him. Coming down met Miss

-. -Cut me dead.-Mem. The Lady thinks we satirized her under the name of Emily. (Vide No. II. p. 140.) Emily is a Beauty.-Everybody thinks Miss sat for the picture.Four o'clock.-Lounged at the Club-Room.-Hodgson made a

* The male glow-worm is a small fly, furnished with wings, without any of that luminous appearance, the property of the female."-Dictionary of Natural History.