the porter gets so confused that he does not know whether he is standing on his head or his heels, and at last bolts the door in a frantic state of excitement, lest any more should come in. Up comes the engine, puffing and blowing, for the weather is awfully hot, and it has been coming a good pace, and in we all rush, one on top of t'other, into one apartment, where a gouty old gentleman is quietly dozing, and after frightening him out of his wits, and working the porters, peelers, and stationmaster up to a great pitch of excitement by dint of peas and chaff, we start at a good pace. "Hope you 'don't object to a little quiet conversation?" "Oh dear no." "Well, then, don't alarm yourself, old buffer;" and off we go jumping, shouting, singing to such an extent that we almost drive the poor old boy out of the carriage; for when we are going home we don't stand upon ceremony-not a bit of it. And now in small parties the fellows begin to drop off until there are only three of us left, and all the peas being gone too, we buy either novels or papers to help us out with the journey. At last I arrive at the station where I expect some conveyance to meet me to bear me in triumph to my paternal mansion, and being in a great hurry I open the door before the train has stopped. (Frantic porter :) "Now then, shut the door-keep your seats, please, till the train has stopped." "All right, old boy, keep up your pecker, 'don't let your spirits go down,'" and out I jump. "Hurrah! there's the Governor in the new dog-cart I heard so much of in the last letter." "Your ticket, please sir." "O yes, I forgot that where in the world is it? I believe I've lost it ; oh no, here it is; bring that trunk and small box this way." I am soon seated by the Governor's side, asking a hundred questions about everything and everybody, both at home and abroad, without ever waiting for an answer. "Ah! here's the old house, and the stables, and the pony feeding in the paddock. How jolly it is! "How do? How do ?" I am so glad to get home, and everyone looks so pleased; though what for, I don't know, for they always say, before half the holidays are over, "I wish that tiresome boy was gone back, what a plague

M

he is." But I really think they have got a new

Well, I must not begin again recounting all the new things I see, or I shall never stop, so I think I had better pull up, and sign myself

FELIX.

OUR BARBERS.

"Reading has for me no charms,

I prefer a good perfumer;

If I'm weary, in his arms

I'm speedily restored to humour."

-Pink of Perfection.

I LIKE our modern Hair-cutters; they are not the grand professional men of the olden time, who combined bleeding and broken arm-mending with the less dignified vocation of shaving and hair-cutting. No sign-boards proclaim our Smiths and Browns to be professors of surgery; our artistes are content with a pole that resembles a huge lollypop stick, of that peculiar formation called rock by the pastry-cooks; but if they do not perform much in the surgery line, they do a great deal in the way of gossiping. When I want to know what my neighbours are about, I invariably submit myself to be shorn, conscious that if I lose something in hair, I shall gain much in news of the little world we live in. "Mr. Smart likes my brushing amazing," said my favourite barber this afternoon as he was rubbing me down, "he quite misses me during the holidays, and says he never enjoys hisself so much as when I hoperate upon his 'air." You may think this conceit on the part of my Figaro, but it is nothing of the kind; it only shows that the man's heart is in his work. I must confess to a love for his brushing; it is a sensual enjoyment, but still it is an enjoyment. If ever I could pardon any one for awaking me of a morning, it would be a barber with brushes and razor in hand. When I am a great man some of these days, and want to get up early without feeling cross about it, I shall commission my smiling, gossiping barber to rouse

me gently from my slumbers. Virgil has eloquently contrasted the facility of falling asleep with the difficulty of early rising, in the memorable lines in which he says that "facil" is the "descending" of the head on the pillow; but to get up-"revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras"-there is the labour, there is the rub. Now, I don't mean the pun; but there, I repeat with Virgil, there should be the rub, there should the barber interfere with his soothing brush, to charm away the horrors of getting up, and to restore the mind to a proper frame. "You must attend to that moustache of yours," (by the way it is very incipient as yet) said my worthy friend, after he had deprived my chin of a forest of hairy appendages invisible to the naked eye-"You must attend to the left side of it, Sir; it needs early training to make it assume an honourable direction. I have some pomade which gives to the user an air of supremacy, and imparts to the hair that elegance which belonged to the locks of the ancient noblesse of France-9d. a pot. Use it, Sir, hunsparingly-you will never repent it, but bless my memory in hafter life for having introduced it to your notice."

APOLLO.

ODE TO SPRING.

O Spring-time of the year,
Where is your beauteous gear ?

Do you forget that Spring should wear
A wreath of roses in her hair?

As yet you've looked but coldly down;
And sometimes, with relentless frown,

The clouds of anger would arise
Which only suit December's skies.
And e'en the April showers were cold,
And flowers that are not over bold
Scarce dared to peep between the leaves,
For no one in your faith believes,
Since you so many aspects shew;
We scarce believe you even though

You smile with many a pleasing grace,
Or promise fair with beaming face;
And though to-day, in sunshine drest,
You softly tell of welcome rest,
We cannot tell how long you stay-
Perhaps not e'en another day.
For you can all the changes bring
That may adorn the face of Spring,
Or coldest winds can bear again
All heavy with a chilling rain.

Then, fairest Spring, come bright and gay

As if to greet a holiday;

Come clothed in flowers of every hue

From tulip to the speedwell blue,
And bear on either lip a smile
The weary-hearted to beguile,

And bear them to thy scenes of joy,
Where pleasure dwells without alloy,
And gleams of pleasure leave behind
To cheer the winter of the mind,
Which sorrow brings on all below,
As freezing as December's snow.

ONE MILE TO WN.

AURA.

RETURNING from a walk the other day, a little before it was necessary for me to be in, and it being a very enjoyable evening, I sat down on the last milestone to enjoy the view for a little while, and recover pluck for the last mile home. I was soon lost in my meditations. You may judge how far I had wandered from every day subjects by the strange fancy which took possession of me.

I fancied that the stone on which I was sitting became all of a sudden endowed with powers of speech, and began to confide to me some of its experiences, which, if you care to hear, I will give you, as nearly as I can remember, in the original words.

"The first thing that I remember in my present state of

-n.

existence, is having my face tattoo'd with the characters you may still see upon it, and immediately after undergoing this operation I was placed in a cart, and taken in it from the stone-mason's yard (down in Wn) and jolted along the road for a good measured mile, at the end of which I was taken out and deposited up to my middle in a hole prepared for my reception, by the side of the road; and I was told that my only business was to inform all passengers who chose to ask me, that it was just a mile from that part of the road to the market-place of WAt first I was rather discontented with my lot, and was inclined to grumble a good deal at the cruelty of my masters (the Turnpike Trustees) in having me scored in the face, and then banishing me so far from all society with such a monotonous occupation. I used to wish I could get back among my brothers in the mason's yard, but I soon got used to my situation, and when I began to look about me I found my new quarters not altogether uncomfortable; the neighbourhood was picturesque, and, though I had lost the companionship of my own kin, I found I had really advanced into a more extended sphere of society, and I would not now return to the mason's yard for the world. In my immediate neighbourhood I am most intimate with a clump of beech trees across the road. We very soon struck up an acquaintance, for they are the most civil fellows in the world, and began nodding to me immediately on my arrival, and have continued to do so ever since, except now and then on a sultry day, when there is not a breath of air stirring, and the smallest exertion is too great; and they never expect me to return their salute, making allowance for my unfortunate position, which quite paralyses me. They are very kind to me in holding out their arms to shelter me from the sun during the hottest part of the day. They are a very handsome set of fellows too—and they know it, as they show by paying particular attention to their dress. Their favourite colour is a bright green, which they put on always in the spring, (perhaps out of regard for me, as they know I am very fond of green)—a little later they adopt a slight change in their dress, still keeping to the green, though not quite such a bright colour, and in the autumn they come out very gaily in