If you approve of flirtations, good dinners, Seascapes divine, which the merry winds whiten,

Nice little saints and still nicer young sinners

Winter in Brighton!

MORTIMER COLLINS.

LONDON-BY-THE-SEA.

BRIGHTON in November

Is what one should remember, When from town so dull and foggy, we all of us would flee; ·

Where air is pure and bracing,

The breezes we are facing,

Away the blues there chasing

At our London-by-the-Sea.

The morning's plunge at Brill's there,

It scares away all ills there,

How dull, or sad, or sober, you may ever chance

to be;

The sunshine bright is flashing,
While in the water splashing,

Away dull care you're dashing―

At bright London-by-the-Sea.

You're sure to find collected
On pier a crowd protected

From weather as they listen to a symphony in B:

'Neath crystal screen's flirtation,

Scarce screened from observation,

You'll find with consternation

At gay London-by-the-Sea,

Grave judges there and jokers,

With actors and stockbrokers,

With every sort of person, of high and low degree; Professor of art fistic,

And preacher ritualistic,

With poet wild and mystic—
At brave London-by-the-Sea.

O'er downs to madly scamper,
Without a care to hamper—

'Tis just the thing to do you good I think you'll quite agree:

All worry you are crushing, Your blood is gaily flushing, As off you're swiftly rushing— At light London-by-the-Sea.

.

With Amazons fast going,

Such tangled tresses flowing,

Such skirts and dainty ribbons in breezes blowing

free:

What joy to canter faster
With beauties of the castor,
As humble riding master,
At smart London-by-the-Sea.

Then frequently there passes
of school lasses,

An

army

So full of buoyant spirits and of gladsome girlish

glee;

That when they softly patter
The pavé o'er and chatter,
I'm as mad as any hatter-
At fair London-by-the-Sea.

Some take a modest tiffin,
On bun or Norfolk biffin,

At Streeter's or at Mainwaring's, but that will

not suit me;

Though folks may call me glutton

I do not care a button,

But love a lunch with Mutton

At this London-by-the-Sea.

The flys are slow and mouldy,

As ev'ry one has told

ye,

Its shrimps by far the finest you could ever wish

for tea;

Its shops are rare and splendid,
Where ev'rything is vended
Till money's all expended—

At dear London-by-the-Sea.

If spirits you would lighten
Consult good Doctor Brighton,

And swallow his prescriptions and abide by his

decree:

If nerves be weak or shaken,
Just try a week with Bacon,
His physic soon is taken-

At our London-by-the-Sea.

J. ASHBY STERRY.

FROM THE HON. HENRY

TO LADY

EMMA

Paris, March 30, 1832.

OU bid me explain, my dear angry

Ma'amselle,

How I came thus to bolt, without saying farewell;

And the truth is, as truth you will have, my

There are two worthy persons I always feel loth To take leave of at starting,-my mistress and tailor,---

As somehow one always has scenes with them both :

The Snip in ill-humour, the Siren in tears,

She calling on Heaven, and he on th' attorney,— Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,

A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his

journey.

But to come to the point,-tho' you think, I daresay, That 'tis debt or the cholera drives me away, 'Pon honour you're wrong;—such a mere bagatelle

As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears: And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pellmell,

To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers; This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of, Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of, This coinage of nobles,—coin'd, all of them, badly, And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly.

Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation, As plenty as frogs in Dutch inundation;

No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection, And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction,— Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of, Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!

The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose

(My particular friend) says is perfectly true, That so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do;

And Sir George even doubts,-could he choose his disorder,

'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order.

This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma,

'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma; And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain

To 've left idol mio without an addio,

Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan

I'll send you some news of Bellini's last trio.

N.B. Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out,
Things a tourist in Italy can't go without-
Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's
shop,

Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap.

Small presents for ladies,—and nothing so wheedles The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd, To think one knows Latin, when-one, perhaps, doesn't.

With some little book about heathen mythology,
Nothing on earth being half such a bore as
Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and
Floras,

Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,
And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.

THOMAS MOORE.