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half, and yet was always punctual with his exercises and school business. With acquirements in every line, (and I think it might be said of him, “nihil non tetigit ; nihil tetigit, quod non ornavit,”) such as might have made him bumptious and proud to his inferiors, D—was good-natured to everybody, and from the time that he first rescued me from my tormentors, a week hardly ever passed without his giving me some hint for my verses or exercise ; hence, I was soon sent up for good, and got a much improved character from my tutor. I should not forget to mention, in that whereas those who play cricket or foot-ball well, look down upon those who, like me, am not an adept at any game, this was not the case with D indeed recommended me to put into Sixpenny in the cricket half, and my tutor's club in the foot-ball half, but he never forced me to play if I did not like it, especially if I had got theme or verses to do. It was through him that I was among those who were put up into the Middle Division in Fifth Form trials – quantum mutatus ab illo !—who was perpetually being flogged for idleness the first few school-times that he was at Eton; and I take this earliest opportunity of acknowledging how much I owe to the kindness of D who has now become my con and messmate; though it may be fairly questioned, whether he does not derogate from his own dignity, in the eyes of his more prejudiced schoolfellows, in associating with me.

Hoping that the Eton Magazine may prosper,

and believing, as D— tells me, that it will do honour to Eton.

I am, &c. &c.


SIR, I have had the misfortune to be next in school to a fellow of the name of B- ; and it has proved a most unfortunate connexion for both of us. We come so often in contact, that we are, as it were, drawn into friendship, or to use an Eton expression, are obliged to

go with” each other, though we are rivals, and at heart all but enemies. B- and I are nearly alike in disposition, which is perhaps rather injurious to friendship than otherwise. We board at the same tutor's, and are tolerably high in our remove; we do nearly the same style of exercise every week; if either of us has done a Greek copy, (which we both think the summum bonum of composition), the other, when he finds it out, is highly indignant at being outwitted ; if one of us gets a punishment in school, the other exults, and when one of us takes it into his head not to do his theme or verses some fine after twelve, he implores the other not to stay in, lest he should get the start of him. In short, Sir, we resort to so many petty tricks in our rivalry of each other, that I sometimes think myself Fourth Form again, with the notions and absurd tastes which are generally attributed to that class.

We are never out half-an-hour together, but one


salutes the other with some abusive language; we never go up to Surly, but we either fling the seats at each other's head, or splash each other with our oars : and one never sits in the other's room without getting up in a passion and vowing never to speak to him again.

[N.B.—B— always comes into my room five minutes afterwards, and begs my pardon.]

To increase our misery we knew each other at home, and from the smallness of the village where we live, are absolutely obliged to “con” with each other.

B— has just forced me into an agreement, not to do theme to-day after twelve, and as I wished to do it, I resolved to vent my rage by giving you an account of the miseries of an ill-assorted friendship.

I am, &c. &c.


[In conclusion we subjoin the following additional remarks which we have received from another hand.]

“ Miseræ pallor amicitiæ.”—Juv.

Cares of an ill-matched friendship. I think, there can be no greater hane, to a fellow here, particularly to one who wishes to make friends, (which I suppose we all do more or less), than a disposition, that takes too sudden likings, and is at the same time at all fastidious in its likings. There are perhaps few things that require more circumspection, than friendship, very few things in which so little circumspection is apt to be employed. One, who has the disposition, I just described, acts, I think, very often, like Gammer Gurton's man, who “on Saturday night married a wife, quarrelled with her on Sunday,” &c., though perhaps his transitions are not quite so quick. He begins by being very much taken with some one for some particular thing, some taste which he has himself: he immediately makes himself very intimate ; increases that intimacy in the most devoted manner for a few days, perhaps longer, for a month, or months; but all this time he has gradually and almost unknown to himself, been finding out in the other's character little uncongenialities, which by frequent repetition begin to wear upon his patience, and at last become effectual bars to his friendship. Then, when he begins to repent of the steps he has taken, he finds it impossible to draw back; and, unless something occurs to extricate him, much of his happiness must necessarily be taken away from him.

He, who makes friends on the first impulse of inclination, would, I should think, in nine cases out of ten, be led to repent it some time or other by bitter experience. I seems to me, that the first thing to be done, before making a friend of any one, who happens to please you, is, to find out whether he has a good temper, not the kind of good temper a groom looks for in choosing a lady's pony, namely, that perfect docility, which requires the rider to use no energy in dealing with it, but a manly and self-denying warm-heartedness, which will awaken all your energies, and strengthen your mutual friendship. If he has this,

and is not a blockhead, I believe there will be few tastes, such as you would wish to find in him, which, if he has not them already, will not seem to spring up up in him at your wish.

[We should recommend our friend to be more ready in forming acquaintances, and less hasty in making friends. For the former a gentlemanly character is the only requisite. For the latter a congenial disposition is indispensable.]



FLEE to the rocks! and hide ye in the dust,
Ye sons of pride, and satellites of lust :
The Lord Himself, sole object of your fears,
In all his awful majesty appears.
Man's haughtiness and pride shall vanish-down
Shall sink the honoured head, the princely crown.
Low, low shall bow the lofty looks of men ;
The Lord alone shall be exalted then!
That day each high aspiring pow'r shall quell,
The heart upraised to heav'n shall sink to hell.
On Bashan, down shall crash the princely oak,
And Lebanon's cedar feel the lightning-stroke.
Each crested mountain, each high hill shall fall,
And every bulwarked tow'r, and fenced wall :
Each work of art shall raging flames devour,
Upon each gallant ship the storm shall lour.

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