to pass judgment on a physical tragedy going on in the house of life, without the critic's free admission to the performance. He is tasked to set to rights a disordered economy, without, as the Scotch say, going "ben," and must guess at riddles hard as Sampson's as to an animal with a honey-combed inside. In fact, every malady is an Enigma, and when the doctor gives you over, he "gives it up."

A few weeks ago one of these puzzles, and a very intricate one, was proposed to the faculty at a metropolitan hospital. The disorder was desperate: the patient writhed and groaned in agony-but his lights as usual threw none on the subject. In

the meantime the case made a noise, and medical men of all degrees and descriptions, magnetizers, homœopathists, hydropathists, mad doctors, sane doctors, quack doctors, and even horse doctors, flocked to the ward, inspected the symptoms, and then debated and disputed on the nature of the disease. It was in the brain, the heart, the liver, the nerves, the muscles, the skin, the blood, the kidneys, the "globes of the lungs," "the

momentum," "the pancras, "the capilaire vessels," and the "gutty sereny." Then for its nature; it was chronic, and acute, and intermittent, and non-contagious, and "ketching," and "inflammable," and "heredittary," and "eclectic," and Lord knows what besides. However, the discussion ended in a complete wrangle, and every doctor being mounted on his own

theory, never was there such a scene since the Grand Combat of Hobby Horses at the end of Mr. Bayes's Rehearsal!

"It's in his STOMACH!" finally shouted the House-Surgeon, -after the departing disputants,-"it's in his stomach!"

The poor patient, who in the interval had been listening between his groans, no sooner heard this decision, than his head seemed twitched by a spasm, that also produced a violent wink of the left eye. At the same time he beckoned to the surgeon. "You're all right, Doctor-as right as a trivet."

"I know I am," said the surgeon,-"it's in your stomach." "It is in my stomach, sure enough."

"Yes-flying gout-"

"Flying what!" exclaimed the patient. "No, no sich luck, Doctor," and he made a sign for the surgeon to put his ear near his lips, "it's six Hogs and a Bull, as I've swaller'd."

AN EPIGRAM.

"TIs said of Lord B., none is keener that he
To spit a Wild Boar with éclât;

But he never gets near to the Brute with his spear,
He gives it so very much law.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY,

TAKEN BY THE DAGUERREOTYPE.

YES, there are her features! her brow, and her hair, And her eyes, with a look so seraphic,

Her nose, and her mouth, with the smile that is there, Truly caught by the Art Photographic !

Yet why should she borrow such aid of the skies,
When by many a bosom's confession,

Her own lovely face, and the light of her eyes,
Are sufficient to make an impression?

THE LEE SHORE

SLEET! and Hail! and Thunder!
And ye Winds that rave,
Till the sands thereunder

Tinge the sullen wave—

Winds, that like a Demon,
Howl with horrid note
Round the toiling Seaman,
In his tossing boat-

From his humble dwelling, On the shingly shore, Where the billows swelling, Keep such hollow roar—

From that weeping Woman,
Seeking with her cries,
Succour superhuman

From the frowning skies

From the Urchin pining

For his Father's knee

From the lattice shining--
Drive him out to sea!

Let broad leagues dissever
Him from yonder foam-
Oh, God! to think Man ever

Comes too near his Home