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 proboseis 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,

As if afraid of being wēt,

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
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
Pretereuntium digito."

monstrari