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sitions into their Album. Senseless objection! These are the very evidences of their genuineness, and I would no more have them removed, than would Martinus have wished to scrub the precious ærugo from the brazen shield, and invest it with a new polish. When Mr. Capel Lofft told us that he had merely corrected a few verbal inaccuracies in Bloomfield's early productions, their charm was at once broken; for we knew not the extent of these revisions, and what was wonderful in a peasant would have been poor enough in a gentleman. As to Miss Caustic's assertion, that Mr. Crump inquired of her whether Mount Ætna was to be spelt with a whipthong, (meaning diphthong,) I believe it to be a spiteful fabrication ; and as to her pretended regret, that he would no longer be able to drive his cart straightforward, because I had completely turned his head, I consider it a mere impertinence. To the thoughts and descriptive parts of his elegy no objections can be urged; it is obvious that he paints from the life, and the allusion to the regular appearance of his master's gig at the door, so perfectly in accord with the punctual habits of that respectable tradesman, is a felicity of local truth which must come home to the bosom of the most careless reader. However, jealousy of a rising luninary prevailed; the remainder of the elegy, declared to be inadmissible, has gone to join the lost books of Livy and the missing comedies of Terence, and I esteem myself happy to have preserved the exordium, which I now confidently present to a candid and judicious public.

In casting my eye over our Album, I venture to extract the following epigram and epitaph, from the pen

of Mr. Skinner the Tanner :

Here lies my dear wife, a sad vixen and shrew;

If I said I regretted her, I should lie too. Were the subject of this inscription a stranger, I should scruple to circulate this couplet ; but, as she was a particular friend of mamma's, who declares the character to be strictly merited, I hesitate not to give it publicity.

From Mr. Schweitzkoffer's serio-comic epic, “The Apotheosis of Snip,” of which I promised you further extracts, I select for my present communication the description of the hero.

“ His lank and scanty hair was black,
His visage sallow, and his back

As broad and strong as Plato's;
His grey eye on his face so wan,
Look'd like an oyster spilt upon

A dish of mash'd potatoes.
In shape his phiz was like a river,
Which at the mouth is broadest ever.
His teeth were indurated sloes ;
Then he'd a nose-oh, such a nose !
It was not certainly so bad
As that which Slawkenbergius had,
Nor that recorded by the poet
Whose owner could not reach to blow it ;
No, that was Ossa to a wart,
For this was just as much too short.
What was it like ?_why nothing, save

The mutilated Sphinx Egyptian,
So flatten'd, that it neither gave

Handle for blowing nor description.

I know not what to call a snout

Described before by no man,
But if it had been turn'd about,

It would have been a Roman.
In short, 'twas like the knave of clubs,
The very snubbiest of the snubs.
Although there was a cavity
Where his proboscis ought to be,
Yet dirt beneath said, plain enough-
• This is the House of Call for snuff,
And witnesseth by this indenture,
That nasal attributes are meant here.'
Such was his face—his form was what
Is term'd in vulgar parlance-squat.
Compared to him, so plain, so wan,

Such dumpy legs, and bow knees,
A Satyr was Hyperion,

And Buckhorse an Adonis."

As conjugal portraits should be always hung up in couples, I send you the drawing of his wife, with which I shall conclude at present, in the full assurance that the delineation of so tempting a creature will excite an intense curiosity for a further developement of her charms in future communications.

“ His rib—(to judge by length alone,
I ought to call her his back-bone,)

Tall as a Maypole ran,
Two feet of which alarming space
Were dedicated to her face

(Her chin was full a span);
Nay, no incredulous grimaces,
This is the age for length’ning faces.
Her eyes were always running o'er,
And the two squinting balls they bore,

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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 Heidelberg and 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 Reeldfell 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.

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