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

faithful journal present them to our eyes on the incontestable evidence of our own handwriting. Personal identity has been disputed on account of the constant renewal of our component atoms: few people, I think, will be disposed to maintain the doctrine of mental identity, when I submit to them the following alter et idem, being a series of extracts from the same journal, registered in perfect sincerity of heart at the time of each inscription, and the whole not spread over a wider space of time than a few consecutive months. Into the cause of my perpetual and glaring discrepancies, it is not my purpose to enter; this is a puzzle that may serve to exercise the ingenuity of your readers.

ANTE-NUPTIAL.

I hate Blondes; white-faced horses and women are equally ugly; the "blue-eyed daughters of the North," like the other bleached animals of the same latitude, are apt to be very torpid, sleepy, and insipid, rarely exhibiting much intellect or piquancy. They remind one of boiled mutton without caper-sauce, or water-gruel without wine or brandy. Every one thought the Albinos frightful, and yet people pretend to admire fair women. Brunettes are decidedly handsomer—what is a snow-scene compared to the rich and various colouring of an autumnal landscape! They have a moral beauty about them; their eyes sparkle with intelligence,-they possess fire-vivacity-genius. A Brunette Sawney is as rare as a tortoiseshell tomcat. There is, however, a species of complexion which

nature accomplishes in her happier moods, infinitely transcending all others. I mean a clear transparent olive, through whose soft and lucid surface the blood may be almost seen coursing beneath, while the mind seems constantly shining through and irradiating the countenance. It is generally found accompanied by dark silky hair, small regular features, and a sylph-like form approximating somewhat to the-Lascar ?— No. To the Spanish ?-No: but to the description which Ovid gives us of Sappho, and to the species of beauty that imagination assigns to the fascinating Cleopatra. My dear Julia exactly represents this kind of loveliness. I am certainly a lucky fellow in having secured the promise of her hand. She possesses animation and briskness, without any of that unamiable tendency to domineer which so many lively females exhibit, and has a good portion of reading and talent without affecting the blue-stocking. It is a bad thing to be over-wifed, like poor Frank Newhenham, who has nothing to do with the laws of his own house but to obey them. Better to have no appointment than get a place under petticoat government.

Determined on sending in my resignation to Brookes's and Arthur's, as well to the Alfred and Union. Hercules gave up his club when he married Dejanira, and all good husbands should follow his example. The increase of these establishments a bad sign: our wives and hotel-keepers must associate together, for they seem to be deserted by the rest of the world. Astonishing that men should prefer politics and port-wine in a club-room, to the converse of a beautiful woman