nts variety. A country box, consisting of
twenty feet square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few
diseased shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaphored as an
island of the Hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, Celts, ptarmigan,
and other wild animals upon it. Now, this is out of all rule. An
elephant's trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it would
be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the other.
Robins--with reverence to so great a name, be it spoken--does not attend
to this. He has yet to acquire the light and graceful touch of the
finished artist." Thereupon Bon Gaultier proceeds to illustrate his
views by the following, and many other rhyming advertisements.]

The Death of Ishmael.

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.
On the pavement cold he lay,
Around him closed the living tide;
The butcher's cad set down his tray;
The pot-boy from the Dragon Green
No longer for his pewter calls;
The Nereid rushes in between,
Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls."

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.
They raised him gently from the stone,
They flung his coat and neckcloth wide--
But linen had that Hebrew none.
They raised the pile of hats that pressed
His noble head, his locks of snow;
But, ah, that head, upon his breast,
Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'"

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died,
Struck with overwhelming qualms
From the flavour spreading wide
Of some fine Virginia hams.
Would you know the fatal spot,
Fatal to that child of sin?
These fine-flavoured hams are bought
AT 50 BISHOPSGATE WITHIN!"

Parr's Life Pills.

'Twas in the town of Lubeck,
A hundred years ago,
An old man walked into the church,
With beard as white as snow;
Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled,
Nor dim his eagle eye:
There's many a knight that steps the street,
Might wonder, should he chance to meet
That man erect and high!

When silenced was the organ,
And hushed the vespers loud,
The Sacristan approached the sire,
And drew him from the crowd--
"There's something in thy visage,
On which I dare not look;
And when I rang the passing bell,
A tremor that I may not tell,
My very vitals shook.

"Who art thou, awful stranger?
Our ancient annals say,
That twice two hundred years ago
Another passed this way,
Like thee in face and feature;
And, if the tale be true,
'Tis writ, that in this very year
Again the stra