If it is; or if it is n't,

We would really like to know,
For, we're certain, if it is n't,

There are some who make it so.

[Arthur's Magazine.

TOBY TOSSPOT.

ONCE on a time,-Toby Tosspot height,-
Was coming from the Bedford late at night:
And being Bacchi plenus,-full of wine,
Although he had a tolerable notion
Of aiming at progressive motion,
'T wasn't direct,-'t was serpentine.
He worked with sinuosities, along,

Like Monsieur Corkscrew worming through a cork,
Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,—a fork

At length, with near four bottles in his pate,

He saw the moon a shining on Shove's brass plate,
When reading, "Please to ring the bell,"

And being civil beyond measure,

"Ring it!" says Toby,-"Very well;
I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure."
Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.

But the first peal 'woke Isaac in a fright,
Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head,
Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed,

Pale as a parsnip,-bolt upright.

At length, he wisely to himself doth say,-calming his fears,"Tush! 'tis some fool has rung and run away;"

When peal the second rattled in his ears!

Shove jumped into the middle of the floor;

And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped down stairs, and opened the street door, While Toby was performing peal the third.

Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant,—

And saw he was a strapper stout and tall,

Then put this question ;-"Pray, sir, what d' ye want ?" Says Toby,-"I want nothing, sir, at all."

"Want nothing!-Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire."

Quoth Toby,-gravely making him a bow,-
"I pulled it, sir, at your desire."

“At_mine !”—“Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well;
High time for bed, sir: I was hastening to it;
But if you write up,- Please ring the bell,'
Common politeness makes me stop and do it."

LOGIC.

AN Eton stripling,-training for the law, A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw,One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf, With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home. Returned, and passed the usual how-d' ye-do's, Inquiries of old friends, and college news."Well, Tom, the road? what saw you worth discerning? How's all at college, Tom? what is 't you 're learning?" "Learning?-oh, logic, logic; not the shallow rules Of Lockes and Bacons, antiquated fools! But wits' and wranglers' logic; for, d'ye see, I'll prove, as clear as A, B, C,

That an eel-pie 's a pigeon; to deny it,

Is to say black's not black.". '—" Come, let's try it ?". "Well, sir; an eel-pie is a pie of fish.”—“ Agreed." "Fish-pie may be a jack-pie."-" Well, well, proceed." "A jack-pie is a John-pie,-and 'tis done!

For every John-pie must be a pie-John,” (pigeon).
"Bravo! bravo!" Sir Peter cries,-"Logic forever!
This beats my grandmother,—and she was clever.
But now I think on 't, 't would be mighty hard
If merit such as thine met no reward:

To show how much I logic love, in course
I'll make thee master of a chestnut-horse."

"A horse!" quoth Tom; "blood, pedigree, and paces!
O! what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"
Tom dreamt all night of boots and leather breeches,
Of hunting cats and leaping rails and ditches;
Rose the next morn an hour before the lark,
And dragged his uncle, fasting, to the park;
Bridle in hand, each vale he scours, of course
To find out something like a chestuut horse;
But no such animal the meadows' crop;

Till under a large tree Sir Peter stopp'd,

Caught at a branch and shook it, when down fell

A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell.

"There, Tom, take that." "Well, sir, and what beside ?" "Why, since you're booted, saddle it and ride."

"Ride! what a chestnut, sir."

"Of course,

For I can prove that chestnut is a horse:
Not from the doubtful, fusty, musty rules
Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools!
Nor old Malebranche, blind pilot into knowledge :
But by the laws of wit and Eton college:
As you have proved, and which I don't deny,
That a pie-John's the same as a John-pie,

The matter follows, as a thing of course,

That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut horse." [Anonymous.

APOLOGY FOR THE PIG.

JACOB, I do not love to see thy nose
Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig:
It would be well, my friend, if we, like him,
Were perfect in our kind. And why despise
The sow-born grunter? He is obstinate,
Thou answerest; ugly; and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal. Now, I pray thee,
Hear the pig's counsel.

Is he obstinate?

We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words,
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned
That pigs were made for man,-born to be brawn'd
And baconized. As for his ugliness,-

Nay, Jacob, look at him;

Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.

Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
And what is beauty but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious: give fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify the beast. All would but mar
His pig perfection.

The last charge, he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him

With precedents right reverend and noble,
And show by sanction of authority,

That 'tis a very honorable thing

To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defense.
The pig is a philosopher, who knows

No prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, what is dirt?
If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts
The o'ergorged epicure is nothing more.
And there, that breeze

Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossomed field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

[Southey.

THE DUEL.

IN Brentford town of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mister Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,

By all it was allowed,

Such fair "outside" was never seen,—

An angel on a cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,

"You choose to rival me,

And court Miss Bell; but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.

"Unless you now give up your suit,

You may repent your love;-
I, who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle-dove.

"So, pray, before you woo her more, Consider what you do:

If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,

I'll pop it into you."