PEREGRINE'S SCRAP-BOOK.

NO. VI.

May 1.-Mr. Warren! Mr. Warren!-I hear this day sad reports of you. You say that you were visited in the vacation by two of the Conductors of "The Etonian ;" and one was 66 a Countrylooking Gentleman," and the other a Gentleman with a pert nose. Oh! Mr. Warren, Mr. Warren! to talk in this manner of Gentlemen who have put so much money into your pockets. I blush for you! Mind what you are about, Mr. Warren! Somebody that you do not wot of is very anxious to obtain the post

of our London Publisher.

Και δώσω οι, έπει τυ μοι ἐνδιαθρυπτη.

When next he comes to town, the Country Gentleman shall construe the Greek to you. Very few Country Gentlemen understand Greek, Mr. Warren!

I ought to have noticed, in our last Number, a composition which I received previous to its appearance. A Gentleman (I forget his signature,) has sent us a Parody of Gray's celebrated "Ode to Eton College." I must tell him plainly that such lines would suit Mr. Hone better than Mr. Courtenay. I cannot imagine what portion of our work has induced him to suppose that" The Etonian" could derive either profit or popularity from the insertion of any thing so disgustingly gross. Epigrams which he has subjoined want novelty sadly.

The

May 4.-I have the permission of the Author of "Godiva" to insert the following Stanzas, which were originally a part of that exquisite Poem, but were subsequently omitted. The first extract formed a sort of introduction to the subject.

When last at Coventry, I stopp❜d to dine

At the King's Head, a house ne'er known to fail
In Worcester cider, and in Shropshire ale.

The wine's not quite so good.-(Take notice, Reader,
In case hereafter at that inn you call;

For my own part I'm but a moderate feeder,
And 'tis but rarely I drink wine at all;

It's apt to make one bilious.-Should you need a
Glass, lest your dinner or your palate pall,
Restrain your appetite-and I'll engage
You find good port at Da'entry, the next stage.)

This by the way. I sometimes step aside,
As Poets always should, to give advice;
They are the world's Instructors, and should hide
In trope and figure many a precept nice;
Morals and maxims they should all provide,
And homilies for every sort of vice;

They should lash vice, and honour virtue too,
In short-do all that Byron scorns to do.

Such were the Bards of old-alone they wander'd
In mystic dreams through haunted dell and grove,
On thoughts sublime their giant spirits ponder'd,
Holding high converse with the powers above:
Mankind with awe their precepts heard, and wonder'd,
And well repaid those precepts with deep love;
They fear'd no critic's censure-sought no praise
For critics liv'd not in those golden days.

But I, who am no wine-bibber, and rather
With my beefsteak prefer a pot of beer,
At Coventry resolv'd to go no farther-

"I think," said I," I'll take my dinner here.-
I see my mare is in a perfect lather;

Since dawn I've ridden fifty miles, or near."
And so I stopp'd, and bade my host prepare
Corn and veal cutlets-for myself and mare.

The cutlets came, rich, and well-done, and smoking,
(Ketchup improves veal cutlets very much)
My host came too, a man much given to joking,
Short, fat, and fond of smoking, like the Dutch,
So much indeed as to be quite provoking;
But, being quite alone, I thought that such
A plump, good-humour'd, jolly man as he
Might prove indifferent good company.

And so in fact I found him-down we sate

To pipe and porter; quick the jug went round,
And warm and warmer wax'd the high debate,
(I thought his politics extremely sound.)

But when he saw that it was growing late,

He brought a ponderous quarto, clasp'd and bound,
And read an old and wondrous tale, which I,
Most courteous Reader, mean to versify.

The next Stanza was intended to follow Stanza X.

Success to Cobbett! Patriot wise and brave!
Long has he sacrific'd at Freedom's altar!
Success to Cobbett! May he shortly have
The rich requital he deserves-a halter!

Success to her whom he intends to save

From Slavery's chains, and may no scoundrel alter

Her old fine laws, no rebel hand tear down

Her dreaded Standard and her honour'd Crown!

After Stanza XI.

We live in wiser days. Ere on our isle
Had Norman William bent his eagle eye,
The Saxon Nobles found it worth their while
To exercise a deal of tyranny.

The abject peasants scarce were seen to smile,
They liv'd upon hard blows and drudgery,
Follow'd their Lords to war with bills and axes,

And paid, in peace, unconscionable taxes.

The passage of Godiva through Coventry was described in the following manner :

At length the trampling of a horse's feet

Dispell'd that breathless silence, the deep hush
Of hearts o'erflowing; and along the street,
Her cheeks o'er-crimsoned by a mantling blush,
Borne on a palfrey, whiter than the sleet

Unstain'd that flutters from some frozen bush,
Godiva pass'd-her charms unveil'd and bare-
It matter'd little-for no eye was there..

Oh that I was a Poet! that my pen

Could give the Reader the most faint idea

Of that most lovely vision! ne'er again

(At least I'm sure I hope not) shall we see a

Sight to compare with what-none look'd on then,-
So beauteous, or so shocking-could there be a
New spectacle of that kind, I foretel

A modern mob would not behave so well.

May 10.-I have received to-day what I cannot but consider a very extraordinary request, from a gentleman who dates from Plymouth, and signs himself "Devoniensis." He wishes us to ransack the files of old newspapers in order "to rescue from oblivion an ingenious jeu d'esprit, which appeared in the Morning Chronicle, about eight years ago. It was written in the character of an Eton Boy, who was one of the Salt-bearers in the Montem, in the year 1812 or 1813 as well as I can recollect, and who being stationed at a spot where the members of the Queen's Council must pass in their way to Windsor, had occasion to stop the carriages of those noble Lords, and make the usual application for Salt. His account of the reception which he met with from the different Lords, particularly Lords Eldon and Ellenborough, and Sir William Grant, was most humourous and characteristical."

My dear Devoniensis,

I have a great respect for the Morning Chronicle, and I have a great respect for the Queen's Council, and I have a great respect for the Salt-bearer, and I have a great respect for you! But,

seriously speaking, my bureau has no room for ante-diluvian Chronicles, and my Publication has no room for Political Squibs. There is yet another part of your letter which I must notice. You say, "I will give you, on the other side, a couplet written by the Marquis Wellesley, while at your illustrious Seminary-communicated by Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt." I will insert it, because I suppose it has (to use an expression of a friend of mine)" lots of wit, if one could find it out.”

| “Tum Crocus obductam lento conamine glebam
Dimovet, et summam flavus inaurat humum."

I believe the Marquis Wellesley has much better verses than these set down to his account, in a compilation called the "Musæ Etonenses!"

May 14.--Transcribed some more Poetry by Edward Morton:

There was a voice, a foolish voice

In my heart's summer echoing through me;

It bade me hope, it bade rejoice,

And still its sounds were precious to me;
But thou hast plighted that deep vow,
And it were sin to love thee now!

I will not love thee! I am taught

To shun the dream on which I doated,
And tear my soul from every thought

On which its dearest vision floated;
And I have pray'd to look on thee
As coldly as thou dost on me.

Alas! the Love indeed is gone,

But still I feed its melancholy;
And the deep struggle, long and lone,
That stifled all my youthful folly,
Took but away the guilt of sin,
And left me all its pain within.

Adieu! if thou hadst seen the heart,
The silly heart, thou wert beguiling,
Thou would'st not have inflam'd the smart,
With all thy bright unconscious smiling;
Thou would'st not so have fann'd the blaze,
That grew beneath those quiet rays!
Nay! it was well!-for smiles like this
Delay'd at least my bosom's fever!
Nay! it was well, since hope and bliss
Were fleeting quickly, and for ever,
To snatch them are they pass'd away,
And meet the anguish all to-day!

I have to inform Amicus, who inquires after a reprint of our three first Numbers, that we think the 750 we have sold sufficient

to answer the purpose for which this work was commenced, and that we do not, at present, contemplate any future Edition.

May 16.-Received this day a copy of verses on "Sævior armis Luxuria," from our old correspondent, "Robigo." This puts me in mind of a sort of promise I made that his Essay should appear in No. VIII.; and, upon examining my papers, I am very sorry to be obliged to confess that the Article has been mislaid-I can find no traces of it. I am, however, the less vexed at this, because I had rather offend Robigo by the omission, than injure him by the insertion of his Contribution. The truth is, that in my opinion neither the Essay nor the Poem come up to the high estimation in which the talents of the Author are so deservedly held. Let him revise such rhymes as these before he is very angry with me for the opinion which I have most sincerely expressed :

"Till Venus rising,
"For sprightly song,
"Io Triumphe!

Ever-smiling"-
For ages gone❞—
Loudly shout ye."

Let him re-consider the following Stanzas, and reflect whether they are likely to add to a really high reputation. I will begin with his Exordium :

"In days of yore, when fabled lore

And mystic speech obtain'd,

Th' Heavenly Conclave began to rave,
Nor threats their spleen restrain'd.”

Next here is a bit of the boastings of Mars :

"Who can deny the Mastery

To me whose arm is strong;

Whose powerful sway, from day to day,
Tolls Death's deep ding, ding, dong?"

I will extract one more stanza, but Robigo must pardon me for altering one word, and taking the sentiment into my own mouth :

May 18.-Inserted a letter from our old friend Allen Le Blanc. I am so little acquainted with Oxford, its concerns, and its inmates, that I am ignorant whether the personages Allen describes are real or fictitious. If they are real, they are painted in such a manner that they cannot take offence at the colouring. If they are fictitious, I am sure nobody will feel any difficulty in finding an original for them somewhere.-There is life in every touch of his pencil.