the Governor's shoulder, now bumping against the padded corner of the carriage, and awaking one moment to take one more pinch previous to relapsing into another nap. O dear! his three-cornered hat has dropped into sister's lap; the greasy old thing! Who knows what it may contain in addition to that repulsive cotton-handkerchief? What if this fat worthy were as devout as Thomas à Becket, and should mortify the flesh in the same lively manner, and have well stocked preserves about his sacred person? Why ever should French priests be thus regardless of cleanliness? Is it that they have a constitutional aversion to cold water? It may be that they fear the application of the cold fluid would bring on rheumatism; like the Greenwich pensioner, who told me one day that he ascribed his health in old age to his having religiously abstained from winter ablutions in his youth. But whatever the cause may be, the effect is palpable in every priest or friar you meet abroad, for there we find a manifest innocence of soap and water. But here we are at Caen. is a great deal to be seen in this antique Norman town. The grand old church especially is a queer thing, with all the little shops growing like weeds between the buttresses, a cobbler here, a barber there. What a sight in this little parlour where shaving is done for a halfpenny! Three burly men are seated near the door with their faces all lathered and towels under their chins, waiting for the razor; while, in the back ground, the barber, his wife, and their ragged son, hold each the nose of a victim between the thumb and index of the left hand, and scrape away most vigorously with the other. Fancy the Governor held by the nose in that unceremonious manner at the mercy of a woman who might cut him up into little pieces, as Juliet wished her Romeo to be cut up, that the bits might form bright twinkling stars

"Up above the world so high.”

There

Here comes a French dandy, a worshipper of the God of

Fashion. The John Bull mania is now the order of the day, and this dandy thinks, no doubt, he has hit it to a T by wearing top-boots, a flat-brimmed hat, cabman fashion, and leading by a string a bull-dog, which he calls "Vellington." Further on is the Market, where more talking is done than business. No one is expected to pay the price that is asked; traffic would be too dull a routine if carried on in such a

matter-of-fact way. So they jabber, gesticulate, fume and stamp all about a farthing or two, and seem highly satisfied with themselves all the while. The cook of our hotel is discussing the price of half-a-dozen robin-redbreasts which we shall see on the table to-day, no doubt, ranking as game either before the soup or after dessert, for these French gastronomes invert all our customs. Yesterday we had melon after the soup, fish after boiled beef, and a roast leg of mutton after snipe. To-day the garçon told me in confidence that we are to have oysters after the soup; the next courses are a matter of pleasant expectation. They ring all the changes which we call in Algebra "permutations and combinations," and give us a practical application of "chances." To-morrow we shall be in Paris, the capital of the world, say the natives of this happy land; and having now been long enough on the road to weary our readers, we bid them farewell.

VIATOR.

SONG OF AN HEXAMETER.

I a lofty hexameter am,

And prouder, perhaps, than I should be:
But I've lived by the banks of the Cam,
And Isis for ages has known me.

I have followed the steps of the Dons
When the Undergrad' silently passes;
And I thought of the pluck, and the Pons
Asinorum, the Bridge of the Asses.

Of swells I have quite a disdain,
And they remit hate in their turn,

For they call me laborious and vain,
And for them quite unworthy to learn.

These I pass with a stride of my feet
(Which were six when I ran in the races),
To where wisdom and learning unite-
At Sherborne, that dullest of places.

But of verses the proudest I feel,
Being sprung from the fairest of Muses;

And from Virgil and Homer I steal
My honour, which no one abuses.

But beginners have found that my feet
Are oftener out of, than in place;

That my voice, which they cannot repeat,
Outsteps their senses in swift pace.

For the present I bid you adieu,

Till verse night, the time of probation ;-
So, Reader, all welfare to you,

Whate'er be your form or your station.

CYMRO.

GITTO.

THE first Article in the last number of the "SHIRBURNIAN" was, if I mistake not, entitled "What shall I Write about." Well, for some time I was in the same dilemma with the unknown author of that poetic effusion; however, the thought struck me (as I was one day walking along the streets with my head down and so buried in thought that I was likely to run it against some bustling citizen,) that a certain tradition, or tale, or whatever you like to call it, which I remember tickled my fancy very much when I first heard it, might perhaps afford a little amusement to some at least of the readers of this Magazine, and I trust that

this will not be inscribed on the cover of the next number among those "declined with thanks."

There is a book now in print entitled "Tales of my Grandfather" well, this certainly is a tale of my grandfather, but is not, however, published in that book. Now, my grandfather had a good stock of such anecdotes as the following on hand, which he was very fond of relating, on all available occasions.

But I must begin now, or otherwise, like one of those recurring decimals I used to be puzzled with at school, I shall go on for ever without stopping.

My tale is about a poor half-witted beggar, who in Wales is styled Gitto, and in Scotland Daft. Though generally considered to be idiots, their wit in case of emergency shines forth with extraordinary clearness, like the moon bursting forth at intervals on a murky night. Well, this said Gitto (who was personally known to my grandfather,) one day in his wanderings (they are great pedestrians) approached the castle of a certain Sir Herbert. This old knight's chief characteristics were gold buttons, diamond buckles, gold-headed cane, freezing manner, and extreme stinginess. However, Gitto knocked at the door of the servants' hall and begged a few crusts of bread, as he had tasted nothing that morning. Some crusts were accordingly given him, but they were so hard and mouldy that even poor Gitto, hungry as he was, could not feel a relish for them. However, placing them in the pocket of his tattered coat, he left the castle highly disgusted both with the bread and the giver. As he passed down the avenue leading to the castle he met the stately Sir Herbert with his goldheaded cane, &c., taking his morning walk. "Good morning, Sir Herbert," says he: "Good morning, Gitto," answers Sir Herbert, "how are you this fine day? What do you want here?” "Well," says Gitto, "I've been up to the castle looking for you, Sir, and I wanted to know if you would be so kind as to teach me the Lord's Prayer." "Very good, Gitto; very good indeed. I'm glad to find you in such a frame of mind. Say after me.” Gitto looked very grave. "Our Father,'" begins Sir Herbert. "My Father," says Gitto. "No, no; "Our Father.'"

66

My

Father," persists Gitto.

"Then," said

"Our Father," once more says Sir Herbert. "Oh!" says Gitto, "then he is my Father as well as yours, is he?" "To be sure, Gitto," returns Sir Herbert. "Then, according to that," says he, "we are brothers ?" "Of course, Gitto," says Sir Herbert; we are all brothers." Gitto, pulling out the mouldy crusts, "ar'n't you ashamed of yourself to give such a piece of bread as this to your brother?" Such is the story of Gitto, and I believe that by his wit he not only obtained for himself a good dinner in the servants' hall, but that Sir Herbert was much improved as regards his stinginess. FAMOSUS.

EXCITEMENT.

Always are small towns dull, but this is the dullest of places ;
Day after day the same, and the smallest piece of excitement
We hail with the greatest glee, and increase the importance of all things.
Thus in the month of April, if my readers will patiently listen,
I will tell all I remember, though small and wonderfully trifling,
To those who dwell in the midst of bustle, excitement, and fashion ;
Thus I will tell of the fire that took place in the house of the builder,
And the sound of the sad fire bell, which caus'd joy in the hearts of us
fellows,

For dearly we love a fire, and the din, and excitement, and bustle.
Scarce had rung out the bell, which told that our studies were over,
Scarce down the schoolroom steps, headlong, had scampered the fellows,
Scarce was forgotten the x or the y of the simple equation,
Each had rushed from his desk and visions of beef and potatoes
Rose up in the minds of the hungry that ever memorable Tuesday;
When on our ears came a sound, dull, and discordant, and dismal,
At which the heart of each fellow leaped in his breast as he heard it,
And joy, wild, fierce, and ambitious, arose in his heart as he listened-
But not long did we listen nor ponder, but quickly collecting
Rushed to the gate in a body and into the street in a moment.

“Where, where is the fire?" we shouted, as gladly we passed down the

causeway,