the boys of auld lang syne in one branch of knowledge, give me your attention whilst I recount an overpowering proof, that in appreciation of real wit and talent for the ludicrous, they were indeed unrivalled. A new lad had come, who from having liberally bestowed various "tucks" on almost every one of his friends in the bedroom was popular on the whole, and received very cordially by us all. At all our stories connected with the various "masters," cc monitors," ," "servants," boys that had left, and boys that remained, (and some of them were by no means amiss,) he seemed rather to sneer, so that he was voted a dull fellow-a spoon-a sap. When, however, emboldened by acquaintance with us, he began to talk of the school he had left, his delight, and even laughter, knew no bounds. "Oh! master was such a jolly fellow"-he said one day to a select circle of friends—“ and such a funny fellow too he was you don't know-he! he! he! he used to make us laugh so he he! I'll tell you such a funny story of him. There was a lad called Brown, and master called him Jacky, because his name was John-he! he! he! Well, one day at dinner, Jacky had only had once of meat, but he'd two helps of pood;" "Of what? we all exclaimed. "Oh! we called rolly, pood, to distinguish it from stick-jaw," was the explanation given. "So when master said, Well, Jacky, will you have any more pudding? he! he! he! Jacky said, he! he! Please sir,' he! he! ha! and master said-he! he! Jacky's fond of pudding!" he! he he! wasn't that funny?"

Having laughed immoderately at the profound and irresistible drollery of Jack Brown's dominie, protesting, that two such schoolmasters would be the death of us, we were all—that is, the whole Omnibus-fraternity in vehicle assembled,— suddenly checked in our hilarity, and sat with solemn visages to listen to

Oh! thou, who wert my all of hope-
Of love of joy, in early years;

Ere aught I knew about the shop,

Or view'd life through a veil of tears. Some poet sings, that, "never yet,

The course of true love smooth did run;" So mine, I'll take an even bet,

Must be the truest 'neath the sun! 'Tis long, long since I ceased to weep O'er all thy broken vows of yore; But, if you want some ribbon cheap,

I hope you'll not go past my door! 'Twas thee my youthful fancy drew

The fairest pattern of your kind;Lace patterns, now, alone I view,

And fancy muslins rule my mind.

Dearest and fairest! oh, forgive

The thought that prompts this simple lay; 'Tis just to tell you where I live

I

I see you passing, every day.

may, perchance, have measured short
The lines that are not in my line;
For yards, not feet, are now my forte,
And rhymes are ill to match and join.
In visions of a future day,

I see thy long-lost form appear;
And, o'er the counter, whispering, say-
"Pray can you make it cheaper, dear ?"
Then I'll not call thee all unkind,
Nor every hope untimely drop;
Unless, in after days, I find

You take your custom past my shop.
J. P.

This pleasantry not unnaturally called to mind the departed author of a thousand similar essays; of a thousand songs, epigrams, odes, farces, and operas; of a thousand proofs of natural talent and untiring activity of mind. The allusion here made is to Thomas Dibdin, the son of the great sea-songster, the brother of the already by-gone Charles, and consequently, the last of the three! The remains of "Poor Tom were interred on the 21st of September, in the burial-ground o St. James's Chapel, Pentonville, close by the grave of his old friend, Grimaldi

May he sleep in peace nevertheless! The feeling of a friend seems to be expressed in the subjoined tribute :

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE THOMAS DIBDIN.

ALAS! poor Tom! thy days are past,
Yet shall thy wit and humour last;
For few, of all the bay-crown'd train,
Could boast a more productive brain.
But what avails, if fleeting praise
Alone the poet's labour pays?
If, when the mind is worn away,
Pale misery waits on dim decay?
If talents rare no more can claim
Than idle transitory fame?

'Twas thine, poor Tom! in life's decline,
In sad reverse and want to pine;
Till Pity came, with angel-pow'r,
To soothe thee at thy latest hour.*
(Pity! on earth a heavenly guest,
And sweetest in a queenly breast.)
But rest thee well! nor let us grieve
Thou hadst no hoarded bags to leave;
One legacy of thine shall yet
Be valued more-thy CABINET.
J. A. WILLIAMS.

It is the fate of one author to be overlooked by the Great, and of another to be overlooked by the Little. But we very much question, whether any author, be he poet or pamphleteer, occupying what is technically called a two-pair front, was ever subjected, whether sitting down to dinner or getting into bed, to the inconvenience of being Overlooked by the Great, after the fashion pourtrayed in the margin hereof. Now this we really take to be

THE HEIGHT OF IMPUDENCE! Impudence has many degrees. When a stranger in a coffee-room politely requests to be allowed just to glance for one instant only at the newspaper you are reading, merely to look at an advertisement, and then, ordering candles into the next box, coolly sits down to read through the parliamentary debate — when a friend borrows your horse, to lend to a friend of his whom he would not trust with his own--a certain degree of impudence has unquestionably been attained. There is impudence in looking through a keyhole, in peeping over the parlour-blinds, in spying into the firstfloor from the window "over the way;" but surely the highest stage of impudence is reserved for the man who stops as he strolls along at night, to look into your bed-room window, on the second floor-tapping at it probably with a request to be permitted to light his cigar at your candle, as the gas-light has

out.

gone

* A few months before Mr. Dibdin's decease, and at the intercession of some friends, he received 100%. out of the Queen's Bounty Fund. But he has left a widow and young family, for whom no provision whatever has been made.

AN APPARENT CASE OF DETERMINED SUICIDE.

As we sauntered along the sea-beach the other day, in the neighbourhood of Margate, we observed a female standing out at a considerable distance from the cliffs, and at a point where she was likely to be cut off from the shore. As the tide at the time was "making in fast," prompted by a humane feeling (and not by an impertinent curiosity, in the hopes of seeing a pretty face), we immediately hastened towards her; upon a nearer approach the form was familiar to us-surely we had seen that figure before-it must be-it is-Mrs. Toddles! What can she be about? She stands motionless upon an elevated patch of sand-the white foam comes boiling and gurgling and hissing around her. She heeds it not -she stirs not; it begins to rain a little-she deliberately puts up her umbrella! What can she mean? Horrible thought! does she meditate self-destruction? Has she resolved to stand there until the mighty waters encompass her about engulfing herself-her little black stockings-her bonnet-her shawl and all! in the deep, vast, salt, briny, hungry ocean. But what are we about? Let us hasten to prevent such an awful catastrophe! Springing forward therefore quickly, we exclaimed, "For heaven's sake, madam, what are you about? Are you determined to destroy yourself, or are you aware of your danger?" "Danger, sir?" cried Mrs. T. with a scream, "what danger, sir? I am only watching the waves.' "Danger, madam! why in five minutes the waves will cut you off from all chance of escape," we exclaimed, and expressed a hope that she could swim. "Swim!" screamed Mrs. T.-" Swim! oh dear, oh dear!"-and away skuttled Mrs. T. along the sands, her little bit black legs going at a most surprising rate. However, leaving Mrs. T.'s legs to themselves, we took to our heels, and encouraged her to increased exertion, when suddenly we heard the little lady exclaim, "Oh, my basket,"-and upon looking round, we saw those little bit black legs hurrying back to the place from whence she started. We hallooed, we bawled-time and space were both narrowing with fearful rapidity.-"Now! madam-haste, haste !-quick-your hand!-there, now!-ah !"-Ahah! too late! too late!-bang comes the wave-such a squash-poor Mrs. T. went

off dripping wet; but we dare say she would find a little drop of comfort, in the shape of smuggled Hollands at her lodgings.

We wonder how Mrs. T. got to Margate, and suppose it was in search of her friend, Colonel Walker-who, we presume, must be out of town-or we should have heard from him.

THE BITER BIT.

"STOP! Stop!" cried a gentleman to an Omnibus cad*, but the cad would neither hear nor stop. "Stupid fellow!" said the gentleman," he'll find it out, to his cost, bye-and-bye; for I have given him a counterfeit five-shilling piece!" But, on looking at the change, he exclaimed-" Well, I never! hang me if the rascal hasn't given me four shillings and sixpence bad money! But, never mind; I've had my ride for nothing!"

*Not attached to our establishment.