dream. A pretty Girl came up on deck, and near the railing stood; she never loved a fellow-man, and said she never would. But whether she couldn't,—or whether she wouldn't,— or her Father said she shouldn't,—the world will never know! The Nine Young Men came up on deck, each in his Sunday clothes, and went abaft the wheel-house, in order to propose. The Lady had no preference, but said that, if she could, she'd marry every one of them, but it wasn't any good! Now whether she couldn't, or whether she wouldn't,-or that custom said she shouldn't, -the world will never know!

The Lady asked the Captain how she ever should decide. Said he, "The love of those young men should certainly be tried." So, when they all were present, she fell into the sea; and eight of them jumped after her, the ninth-oh! where was he? Now whether he couldn't (jump),—or whether he wouldn't (swim),--or the Captain said he shouldn't (try),the world will never know!

Once fairly out of the water, she went up to him, and said, "Dear sir, you are a solid man, and have a level head; so, without further parley, or hint of a pretence, I agree to marry you, sir, for you have common sense. So her Father said he couldn't, and her Mother said she wouldn't,-and the Captain said he shouldn't,-refuse to give consent !

John Day.

John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman kind,

With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight

When he was in the rear,

And wished his box a Christmas-box
To come but once-a-year.

Alas! against the shafts of love

What armour can avail?

Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved,
From whom he never ranged;

For though he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;

And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers.

One day, as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump,

He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.

Said she, "My taste will never learn
To like so huge a man,

So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can.”

But still he stoutly urged his suit,

With vows, and sighs, and tears,
It could not pierce her heart, although
He drove the "Dart” for years.
In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.
He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town;
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin,

But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.
"O Mary! view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Though I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half."
Alas! in vain he still assailed,
Her heart withstood the dint;

Though he had carried sixteen stone,
He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being's link ;
For he was so reduced in size
At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water's praise,
And waste a deal of breath,
But John, though he drank nothing else,
He drank himself to death.

The cruel maid that caused his love
Found out the fatal close,
For, looking in the butt, she saw
The butt end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
But that is only talk-
For after riding all his life,
His ghost objects to walk.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me "ugly little sin?"

My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home-and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?

My Aunt.
Who "of all earthly things" would boast,
"He hated others' brats the most,"
And therefore made me feel my post?

My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?

My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,

Again with father to reside,

Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?

My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,

And when I played cried "What a noise!" Girls always hector over boys—

My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,

'Cause I was eight, and he was nine?

My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said “Good lad,” And gave me sixpence, "all he had,"

But at the stall the coin was bad?

My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referr'd me to the pump? Alas!

My Friend.
Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathised with grief,
Or shared my joy-my sole relief?

Myself.

The Philosopher and her Father.

(Verse printed as Prose.) A sound came booming through the air-"What is that sound?" quoth I. My blue-eyed pet, with golden hair, made answer presently, "Papa, you know it very well-that sound -it was Saint Pancras bell." "My own Louise, put down that cat, and come and stand by me; I'm sad to hear you talk like that, where's your philosophy? That sound-attend to what I tell-that sound was not Saint Pancras bell. Sound is the name the sage selects for the concluding term of a long series of effects, of which the blow's the germ. The following brief analysis shows the interpolations, miss. The blow which, when the clapper slips, falls on your friend, the bell, changes its circle to ellipse (a word you'd better spell), and then comes elasticity, restoring what it used to be. Nay, making it a little more, the circle shifts about, as much as it shrunk in before the bell, you see, swells out; and so a new ellipse is made (you're not attending I'm afraid). This change of form disturbs the air, which in its turn behaves in like elastic fashion there, creating waves on waves; these press each other onward, dear, until the outmost finds your ear." “And then, papa, I hear the sound, exactly what I said; you're only talking round and round, just to confuse my head. All that you say about the bell my Uncle George would call a 'sell.'" "Not so, my child, my child, not so, sweet image of your sire! a long way further we must go before it's time to tire; this wondrous, wandering wave, or tide, has only reached your ear's outside. Within that ear the surgeons find a tympanum, or drum, which has a little bone behind,-malleus it's called by some; but those not proud of Latin grammar humbly translate it as the hammer. The wave's vibrations this transmits, on to the incus bone (incus means anvil, which it hits), and this transfers the tone to the small os, orbiculare, the tiniest bone that people carry. The stapes next-the name recalls a stirrup's form, my daughter-joins, three half-circular canals, each fill'd with limpid water; their curious lining, you'll observe, made of the auditory nerve. This vibrates next-and then we find the mystic work is crown'd, for there my daughter's gentle mind first recognises sound. See what a host of causes