As if afraid of being wet,

Beneath her nose's bridge would get.
So fond were they of this inversion,
That they were always in eclipse,
Save when on pleasurable trips
They popp'd out on a short excursion.
Her meagre sandy hair was frizzly,
And her appearance gaunt and grizzly.”

PETER PINDARICS.

Patent Brown-Stout.

A BREWER in a country town
Had got a monstrous reputation ;
No other beer but his went down,
The hosts of the surrounding station
Carving his name upon their mugs,

And painting it on every shutter;

And though some envious folks would utter Hints, that its flavour came from drugs, Others maintain'd 'twas no such matter, But owing to his monstrous vat, At least as corpulent as that

At Heidelbergand some said fatter.

His foreman was a lusty black,
An honest fellow;

But one who had an ugly knack
Of tasting samples as he brew'd,
Till he was stupefied and mellow.
One day, in this top-heavy mood,

Having to cross the vat aforesaid,
(Just then with boiling beer supplied),
O'ercome with giddiness and qualms, he
Reel'd-fell in-and nothing more said,
But in his favourite liquor died,

Like Clarence in his butt of Malmsey.

In all directions round about

The negro absentee was sought,
But as no human noddle thought

That our fat Black was now Brown Stout,
They settled that the rogue had left
The place for debt, or crime, or theft.
Meanwhile the beer was day by day
Drawn into casks and sent away,

Until the lees flow'd thick and thicker; When, lo! outstretch'd upon the ground, Once more their missing friend they found, As they had often done-in liquor.

See! cried his moralizing master,

I always knew the fellow drank hard,
And prophesied some sad disaster;
His fate should other tipplers strike:
Poor Mungo! there he welters, like
A toast at bottom of a tankard!

Next morn a publican, whose tap

Had help'd to drain the vat so dry,
Not having heard of the mishap,
Came to demand a fresh supply,
Protesting loudly that the last
All previous specimens surpass'd,
Possessing a much richer gusto
Than formerly it ever used to,
And begging, as a special favour,
Some more of the exact same flavour.

I 2

Zounds! cried the Brewer, that's a task
More difficult to grant than ask :-
Most gladly would I give the smack
Of the last beer to the ensuing,

But where am I to find a Black,
And boil him down at every brewing?

York Kidney Potatoes.

ONE Farmer Giles, an honest clown
From Peterborough, had occasion
To travel up to London town

About the death of a relation,
And wrote, his purpose to explain,
To cousin Jos. in Martin's-lane;
Who quickly sent him such an answer as
Might best determine him to dwell
At the Blue Boar-the Cross-the Bell,
Or some one of the caravanseras
To which the various coaches went-
All which, he said, were excellent.

Quoth Giles, "I think it rather odd he
Should write me thus, when I have read
That London hosts will steal at dead
Of night to stab you in your bed,
Pocket your purse, and sell your body,—
To 'scape from which unpleasant process
I'll drive at once to cousin Jos.'s."

Now cousin Jos. (whose name was Spriggs)
Was one of those punctilious prigs

Who reverence the comme il faut ;
Who deem it criminal to vary

From modes prescribed, and thus "monstrari Pretereuntium digito.”

Conceive him writhing down the Strand,
With a live rustic in his hand,

At once the gaper and gapee;
And pity his unhappy plight,
Condemn'd, when tête-à-tête at night,

To talk of hogs, nor deem it right

To show his horrible ennui.

Jos. was of learned notoriety,

One of the male Blue-stocking clan,
Was register'd of each Society,
Royal and Antiquarian ;
Took in the Scientific Journal,

And wrote for Mr. Urban's Mag.
(For fear its liveliness should flag)

A thermometrical diurnal,

With statements of old tombs and churches,
And such unreadable researches.

Wearied to death, one Thursday night,
With hearing our Northampton wight

Prose about crops, and farms and dairies, Spriggs cried-"A truce to corn and hay,— Somerset-house is no great way,

We'll go and see the Antiquaries.”

"And what are they?" inquired his guest :

Why, Sir," said Jos. somewhat distress'd

To answer his interrogator,

"They are a sort-a sort-a kind

Of commentators upon Nature;”"What, common 'tatoes!" Giles rejoin'd, His fist upon the table dashing, "Take my advice-don't purchase one, Not even at a groat a ton,

None but York kidneys does for mashing."

ANTE AND POST-NUPTIAL JOURNAL.

"When I said I would die a Bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.—

"A miracle!—here's our own hands against our hearts." Much Ado about Nothing.

SOME people have not the talent, some have not the leisure, and others do not possess the requisite industry, for keeping a private diary or journal; and yet there is probably no book which a man could consult with half so much advantage as a record of this sort, if it presented a faithful transcript of the writer's fluctuating feelings and opinions. If, instead of comparing our own mind with others, which is the process of common reading, we were to measure it with itself at different periods, as exhibited in our memorandum book, we should learn a more instructive humility, a more touching lesson of distrust in ourselves and indulgence towards our neighbours, than could be acquired by poring over all the ethics and didactics that ever were penned. As a mere psychological curiosity, it must be interesting to observe the advancement of our own mind; still more so to trace its caprices and contrasts. Changes of taste and opinion are generally graduated by such slow and imperceptible progressions, that we are unconscious of the process, and should hardly believe that our former opinions were diametrically opposed to our present, did not our