and unflinchingly to the cathedral of St. Laura,
Noughtenborough, as the ivy to the old stone-
wall around its meadows.

The Mayor is as hearty as ever, and will
probably be returned to Parliament next
year. If so, we will merely say a few words
of caution to Deans and Chapters.

A wiser man than any of us once said, "Take
care of the shillings, and the pounds will take
care of themselves." In like manner we say,
"If you would not provoke too much inquiry,
that may end in your destruction, beware of
seeking to pay Three Pounds Sixteen with
THREE AND SIXPENCE.

THE SOURCE OF JOY.

JOY springs in the heart that is tender and kind,
Like a fountain that kisses and toys with the wind;
Whence rills trickle softly to blend with the ground,
Spreading freshness and verdure and beauty around.

O! seek not for joy in the depths of the bowl,
Nor quench in its poison the fire of the soul;
Each draught leaves a seed that will quicken and bear
An Upas to wither with grief and despair.

No! revelling yields not the bliss we desire,
Though poets have sung in its praise to the lyre;
True happiness flows in a still silent stream,
Not whirling in eddies, as some fondly deem.

It is found in the peace and the comforts of home,
It is lost to the heart when in exile we roam;
It is glimpsed in the smiles of the faces we love,
Like a star beaming forth from its station above.

But it blesses not those who are branded with guilt
For the victim betray'd, or for blood idly spilt;
It flies from the miser, the selfish, the proud,
And eludes their pursuit till they lie in the shroud.

Be kind to thy neighbour, but stern to thyself,
Grant freely to wretches the aid of thy pelf;
Press hopefully forward—the treasure is thine,
A treasure more precious than lurks in the mine!

THINGS DEPARTED.

I USE the parlour, I am not ashamed to say
it, of the Blue Pigeon. There was an attempt,
some months since, headed, I believe, by that
self-educated young jackanapes Squrrel, to
prevail on the landlord to change the appellation
of  "parlour" into coffee-room; to
substitute horsehair-covered benches for the
Windsor chairs; to take the sand off the
floor, and the tobacco-stoppers off the table.
I opposed it. Another person had the
impudence to propose the introduction of a horrible
seditious publication, which he called a liberal
newspaper. I opposed it. So I did the
anarchical proposition to rescind our standing
order, that any gentleman smoking a cigar
instead of a pipe, on club nights, should be
fined a crown bowl of punch. From this you
will, perhaps, Sir, infer that I am a Conservative.
Perhaps I am. I have my own
opinions about Catholic Emancipation,
Parliamentary Reform, and the Corn Laws.

I have nothing to do with politics, nor
politics with me, just now; but I will tell
you what object I have in addressing you. I
can't help thinking, coming home from the
club, how curiously we adapt ourselves to the
changes that are daily taking place around
us; how, one by one, old habits and old
customs die away, and we go about our business
as unconcernedly as though they never had
been. Almost the youngest of us—if he choose
to observe, and can remember what he
observes—must have a catalogue of "things
departed;" of customs,  ceremonies, institutions,
to which people were used, and which
fell gradually into disuse; which seemed,
while they existed, to be almost necessaries of
life, and for which now they don't care the
value of a Spanish bond. There was a friend
of mine, a man of genius, whose only fault
was his continuous drunkenness, who used to
say, that the pith of the whole matter lay in
the  "doctrine of averages." I was never a
dab at science and that sort of thing; but I
suppose he meant that there was an average
in the number of his tumblers of brandy and
water, in the comings up of new fashions, and
in the goings down of old ones; then of the
old ones coming up again, and so vice versâ,
till I begin to get muddled (morally muddled,
of course), and give up the doctrine of
averages in despair.

I have a copious collection in my memory
of things departed. l am no chicken (though
not the gray-headed old fogy that insulting
Squrrel presumes to call me); but if I were
to tell you a tithe of what I can remember in
the way of departed fashions, manners, and
customs, the very margins of this paper would
be flooded with type. Let me endeavour to
recall a few—a very few only—of what I call
things departed.

Hackney-coaches, for instance. Why, a boy
of twelve years of age can remember them;
and yet, where are they now? Who thinks
of them?  Grand, imposing, musty-smelling,
unclean old institutions they were. Elaborate
heraldic devices covered their panels;
dim legends used to be current amongst us
children, that they had all been noblemen's
carriages once upon a time, but falling—with
the princely houses they appertained to—into
decay, had so come to grief and hackney-
coach-hood. They had wonderful coachmen,
too—imposing individuals, in coats with capes
infinite in number. How they drove! How
they cheated! How they swore! The
keenest of your railway cabbies, the most
extortionate of your crack Hansoms, would have
paled before the unequalled Billingsgate of
those old-world men, at the comprehensive
manner in which you, your person, costume,
morals, family, and connections, were cursed.
As all boatmen at Portsmouth have (or say
they have) been Nelson's coxswain, so used I
to believe every hackney-coachman I saw to