We first became much interested in the laments of an old gentleman who was bewailing the "Turn Out" of a friend at the last election for the county of Next

we listened to an Episode from a Dandy, who was discussing the extraordinary coat "turned out" by Mr. Michael Oakley at the last county ball. Finally we were engaged in a desperate argument with a Wiccamist, upon the comparative degree of talent "turned out" from each of the publick schools during the last ten years. Of course we proceeded to advocate the cause of our foster-mother, against the pretensions of our numerous and illustrious rivals. Alas! we felt our unworthiness to stand forward as Etona's panegyrist, but we made up in enthusiasm what we wanted in ability. We ran over with volubility the names of those thrice-honoured models, whose deserved success is constantly the theme of applause, and the lifespring of emulation among their successors. We had just brought our catalogue down to the names of our more immediate forerunners, and were dwelling with much complacency on the abilities which have during the last few years so nobly supported the fair fame of Eton at the Universities, when our eye was caught by the countenance of our Hon. Friend, which, at this moment, wore an appearance of such unusual despondence, that we hastened immediately to investigate the cause. Upon inquiry, we learned that Montgomery was most romantically displeased, because Caroline had refused to sing an air of which he was passionately fond. We found we had just arrived in time for the finale of the dispute. "And so you can't sing this to oblige me?" said Gerard. Caroline looked refusal. "I shall know better than to expect such a condescension again," said Gerard, with a low sigh. "Tant mieux!" said Caroline, with a low courtesy. The audience were unanimous in an unfeeling laugh, in the midst of which Gerard made a precipitate retreat, or as O'Connor expresses it, 66 ran away like mad," and we followed him as well as we could, though certainly not.

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passibus aquis." As we moved to the door we could hear sundry criticisms on the scene. "Articles of ejectment!" said a limb of the law. "The favourite distanced!" cried a Newmarket Squire, "I did not think the breach practicable!" observed a gentleman in regimentals. We overtook the unfortunate object of all these comments about a hundred yards from the house. His woe-begone countenance might well have stopped our malicious disposition to jocularity; nevertheless we could not refrain from whispering in his ear-"Gerard! a decided Turn out!" "I beg your pardon," said the poor fellow, mingling a smile for his pun with a tear for his disappointment, "I beg your pardon;—I consider it a decided take in."

F. W.

THE MISERIES OF CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

TO MR. COURTENAY.

"Fanum putre Vacuna."-HOR.

SIR,—I know it is the general opinion that his few weeks' Holidays are the happiest part of a schoolboy's existence, and that the prospect of going home, with its pleasant and natural accompaniments of cessation from lessons and from flogging, are the only means by which he is enabled to keep up his spirits, under the heavy load and pressure of necessary discipline. This, however, is taking it for granted that a schoolboy is of course unhappy; which I, as an Etonian, must for my own part positively deny: but at the same time I am forced to allow, although perhaps it may be injurious to my argument, that I begin to feel most uncomfortably, when the busy

preparations of my joyful community remind me of what, of my own accord, I should never wish to recollect- that the Holidays are approaching. You will probably, by this time, be able to conjecture, that I am a sober steady youth, and not one likely to endanger his neck for the sake of a boyish bravado, by starting from Eton in a wretched tandem, torturing myself by riding a lame hack, or whisking away in that most ungentlemanlike of all conveyances, a post-chaise and four. In truth, I am usually content with a stage-coach; the miseries of that conveyance are so well known, and so universally experienced, that they need no description: perhaps, however, they may be thought rather increased by the length of my journey, which requires a day and night for its completion, and by the cold of Christmas, which is the time to which I particularly allude. I usually reach Swinburne House about seven o'clock in the evening. The moment that the noise of the wheels is heard, the hall doors fly open, and all the old servants come forward to hand me out of the carriage, to inquire after my health, and pay their earliest respects to "Young Master." After this, fatigued as I am, I have to receive the hugs, kisses, and questions of the whole family, assembled around a blazing wood fire in the dining-room, with the bottles and dessert still standing on the table, and an elbow chair placed for my reception in the chimney corner. Oh! the kind inquiries and compassionate looks which I receive, when I stretch out my numbed and shivering hands to the blaze, while, in spite of trying to look as happy and merry as I can, my teeth betray me with their involuntary chattering! "How happy he must be!" is the general cry;-one proposes a hot dinner; another rings the bell for the purpose; my old Aunt seldom fails to stand up for the superior efficacy of a refreshing cup of warm tea after a journey. All these prescriptions generally end in my taking a glass of wine to drink the healths of the party, and setting off to bed, happy and tired. Although I declare myself averse

to leaving Eton, when I am comfortably settled there, and indeed to the general tenor of my vacation, I should be both ungrateful and unfeeling if I could receive so many hearty welcomes, and so many affectionate good wishes, without a sweet emotion of joy-if I could visit, without a sensible pleasure, the spot endeared to me by the recollection of my birth and my boyhood; where I have so often played, and laughed, and wept; where every nook and cranny is the scene of some ancient enjoyment. In fact I always consider the first the happiest night of the Holidays, and lay myself down with wearied limbs and agreeable thoughts; perhaps too in some degree comforted, by the knowledge that I have that liberty which is denied me at school, of lifting up my head without the danger of breaking it.

The next day passes pleasantly enough, being employed in a ride round the premises, and in looking at the improvements perhaps some road or footpath turned, which interfered with the young plantations, and from whence the passenger used to stray and wander over the park, to the great annoyance of the proprietors; some unsightly cottages knocked down, or whitewashed and beautified; some clumps of forest trees disposed in different directions, either to hide a disagreeable object, or to provide against the decay of the venerable old oaks, which my father wisely considers must at some time happen, although they are preserved with the most religious attention. He is always my companion in this excursion, points out what he has done, and expatiates with true delight upon the advantage of the alterations and the novelties, of which he is as proud as any country squire in England. Sometimes too, I am called upon to admire the superior farming of a favourite tenant, who, as I am told, has just introduced, in spite of all prejudices, a new and enlightened mode of agriculture, the success of which is fully exemplified by the flourishing appearance of his drilled wheat, the healthy plant of winter turnips,

and the fine condition of his sheep and oxen. This, repeated every day, would be very tedious; however, it might be better than doing nothing, which is positively my unwelcome condition. After breakfast, or even earlier, all the members of the family who can mount a horse, or pull a trigger, set out, according to their different inclinations, either on hunting or shooting parties. Now both of these pursuits I utterly detest; and fishing, which is my only and principal pleasure, is totally prevented by the coldness of the weather and unfitness of the season.

I dare say you, Mr. Editor, or any other compassionate person, will readily pity me, left to myself to write a solitary letter, or to explore the treasures of the dusty book-shelves-a sort of invasion which the ancient folios have not felt for the last fifty years.. "Tis true I now and then encounter the clergyman of the parish, who has free admission to this seat of learning; but he is a very poor librarian, for he only knows a few volumes of divinity; and, being an elderly gentleman, is so heterodox and obsolete in his classical opinions, that he has often put me into a rage by disputing Porson's learning, and is still inclined to reject the doctrine of the Digamma. In addition to this, he is very pertinacious in argument, more of a metaphysician than philosopher, and more of a schoolman than either, totally ignorant of modern literature, which he holds beneath him, and imbued with rigid notions of discipline; so that I can never converse with him pleasantly; and I always perceive an involuntary shrug of his shoulders, and contortion of his visage, whenever the name of Eton is mentioned; and indeed he has often favoured me with some very sharp and illiberal attacks on the frivolous system (as he terms it,) of learning pursued there, which nothing but his' grey head deters me from returning. In such company there is little to learn, and still less to enjoy ; so I generally go out of the room, and leave the clergyman to his books