THE HOUNDS DITCH ALBUM.-NO. 11.

Second Letter from Miss Hebe Hoggins.

MISS CAUSTIC, I am sorry to say, is elected a member of our society, in spite of my blackball, and has already begun to gratify her envy, hatred, and malice. Mr. Skinner, the tanner, of Norton Falgate, has undertaken a poem of the most comprehensive and daring kind, entitled the Creation, which promises completely to eclipse Sir Richard Blackmore's, and of which the headings of the different chapters are already composed. We are told, exclaimed Miss Caustic, after reading the plan of this noble work, that at the creation every thing was made out of nothing, but it appears to me, that this author has made nothing of every thing. In answer to my observation, that Mr. Schweitzkoffer's verses were destined to immortality, she cried with a sneer,-"Yes, because he writes them to no end ;" and when an erudite sonnet of Mr. M'Quill's was pronounced to smell of the lamp, she peevishly whispered," Ay, it would smell of the fire if it were treated as it deserves." But the chief object of her illnatured ridicule is a literary phenomenon whom I am patronizing, a genius of the first order, although at present in the humble occupation of carman to Messrs. Tierce and Sweetman, grocers in Whitechapel. This prodigy, if I be not grievously mistaken, will speedily eclipse all the Bristol milkwomen, farmers' boys, Ettrick shepherds, Northamptonshire peasants, and Dumfries stonecutters, that ever burst their bonds, and set themselves to work with their heads instead of their hands; and yet the members of our club make him the subject of their jealous banter and illiberal sarcasm, venting their misplaced jokes upon his employment, which constitutes his principal claim to admiration. Miss Caustic observes that he will be able to drive a good bargain with the booksellers, and that, as he goes every morning to take orders, he will be soon qualified for the living of Horselydown, or the curacy of Whitehall, in which case he would be quite at home in the Stable-yard; but Mr. M'Quill suggests that he may be one of Horace's Carmen Seculare, and of course ineligible to spiritual dignities, although by the nails in his shoes he seems already to be of the order of Pegasus. This gentleman sneeringly calls him the philosopher Descartes, and at other times terms him my Lord Shaftsbury, observing that his bad grammar is one of his Characteristics. Even Mr. Schweitzkoffer, who ought to have been superior to such vulgar raillery, anticipates that his wit will be attic, because he must always have dwelt in garrets, and have frequently been to Grease, unless his wheels were scandalously neglected.

My bosom beat high at the interesting moment when I first introduced him to our Academus that he might recite one of his poems, and I felt assured that he would make these jeerers ashamed of their witticisms, which, after all, were nothing but a string of miserable puns. He appeared with his whip in his hand, to which instant exception was taken, as completely reversing the established order of things, and the customary_relation between poets and critics, it being exclusively reserved to Lord Byron to lash his reviewers. Mr. M'Quill accordingly went up to him, and exclaiming,-" Parce, puer, stimulis," took the instrument from him, and deposited it on the table. George Crump,

for that is the name of the phenomenon, then drew a paper from his pocket, and very unaffectedly began by scratching his skull, at which an ignorant titter was heard, and Miss Caustic addressing herself to me, flippantly cried,—" Well, I am agreeably disappointed, for I begin to think the man really has something in his head." A young lady by her side hinted that he was only pulling out verses with his nails, as a skull, like any other territory, must be ploughed to make it productive; but I silenced these stupid sarcasms by informing the sneerers that this species of application is particularly recommended to authors by Aretæus, and is a recorded poetical practice of such high antiquity, that it is presumed to have suggested the mythological allegory of Ju piter wounding his head in order to let out Minerva.

Mr. Crump having cleared his throat by a loud hem! and spit upon the ground, at which Miss Caustic affected a ridiculous disgust, began with a loud voice to read his

Evening, an Elegy.

APOLLO now, Sol's carman, drives his stud

Home to the Mews that 's seated in the West,

And Customs' clerks, like him, through Thames-street mud,

Now westering wend, in Holland trowsers dress'd

So from the stands the empty carts are dragg'd,
The horses homeward to their stables go,
And mine, with hauling heavy hogsheads fagg'd,
Prepare to "taste the luxury of-Wo!"

Now from the slaughter-houses cattle roar,

Knowing that with the morn their lives they yields,

And Mr. Sweetman's gig is at the door,

To take him to his house in Hackney Fields.

Closed are the gates of the West India Docks,
Rums, Sugars, Coffee, find at length repose,
And I with other careless carmen flocks

To the King's Head, the Chequers, or the Rose.

They smoke a pipe-the shepherd's pipe I wakes,
Them skittles pleases-me the Muse invites,
They in their ignorance to drinking takes,

I, bless'd with learning, takes a pen and writes.

Here there was such an unmannerly burst of laughter that Mr. Crump was unable to proceed, and several voices at once declared that it would be disreputable to the society to admit such ungrammatical compositions into their Album. Senseless objection! These are the very evidences of their genuineness, and I would no more have them removed, than would Martinus have wished to scrub the precious ærugo from the brazen shield, and invest it with a new polish. When Mr. Capel Lofft told us that he had merely corrected a few verbal inaccuracies in Bloomfield's early productions, their charm was at once broken, for we knew not the extent of these revisions, and what was wonderful in a peasant, would have been poor enough in a gentleman. As to Miss Caustic's assertion that Mr. Crump enquired of her, whether Mount Ætna was to be spelt with a whipthong, (meaning dipthong,) I believe it to be a spiteful fabrication; and as to her pretended regret, that he would

no longer be able to drive his cart straightforward, because I had completely turned his head, I consider it a mere impertinence. To the thoughts and descriptive parts of his elegy no objections can be urged; it is obvious that he paints from the life, and the allusion to the regular appearance of his master's gig at the door, so perfectly in accord with the punctual habits of that respectable tradesman, is a felicity of local truth which must come home to the bosom of the most careless reader. However, jealousy of a rising luminary prevailed; the remainder of the elegy, declared to be inadmissible, has gone to join the lost books of Livy and the missing comedies of Terence, and I esteem myself happy to have preserved the exordium, which I now confidently present to a candid and judicious public.

In casting my eye over our Album, I venture to extract the following epigram and epitaph, from the pen of Mr. Skinner the Tanner : Here lies my dear wife, a sad vixen and shrew,

If I said I regretted her, I should lie too.

Were the subject of this inscription a stranger, I should scruple to circulate this couplet; but, as she was a particular friend of mamma's, who declares the character to be strictly merited, I hesitate not to give it publicity.

From Mr. Schweitzkoffer's serio-comic epic, The Apotheosis of Snip, of which I promised you further extracts, I select for my present communication the description of the hero.

"His lank and scanty hair was black,
His visage sallow, and his back

As broad and strong as Plato's ;
His grey eye on his face so wan,
Look'd like an oyster spilt upon
A dish of mash'd potatoes.
In shape his phiz was like a river,
Which at the mouth is broadest ever.
His teeth were indurated sloes;

Then he'd a nose-oh, such a nose!

It was not certainly so bad

As that which Slawkenbergius had,

Nor that recorded by the poet

Whose owner could not reach to blow it;

No, that was Ossa to a wart,

For this was just as much too short.
What was it like ?-why nothing, save

The mutilated Sphinx Egyptian,

So flatten'd, that it neither gave
Handle for blowing nor description.
I know not what to call a snout
Described before by no man,
But if it had been turn'd about,
It would have been a Roman.
In short 'twas like the knave of clubs,
The very snubbiest of the snubs.
Although there was a cavity
Where his proboscis ought to be,
Yet dirt beneath said plain enough
"This is the House of Call for snuff,

And witnesseth by this indenture,
That nasal attributes are meant here."
Such was his face-his form was what
Is term'd in vulgar parlance-squat.
Compared to him, so plain, so wan,
Such dumpy legs, and bow knees,
A Satyr was Hyperion,

And Buckhorse an Adonis."

As conjugal portraits should be always hung up in couples, I send you the drawing of his wife, with which I shall conclude at present, in the full assurance that the delineation of so tempting a creature will excite an intense curiosity for a further developement of her charms in future communications.

His rib-(to judge by length alone,
I ought to call her his back-bone,)
Tall as a maypole ran,

Two feet of which alarming space
Were dedicated to her face 1
(Her chin was full a span);
Nay, no incredulous grimaces,
This is the age for length'ning faces.
Her eyes were always running o'er,
And the two squinting balls they bore,
As if afraid of being wet,

Beneath her nose's bridge would get.
So fond were they of this inversion,
That they were always in eclipse,
Save when on pleasurable trips
They popp'd out on a short excursion.
Her meagre sandy hair was frizzly,
And her appearance gaunt and grizzly.

This rawboned nymph was christen'd Rose,
But why, no human being knows,
Unless when young she might disclose,
Like other blooming misses,
Roses which quickly fled in scorn,
But left upon her chin the thorn,
To guard her lips from kisses.
Her character I need not sketch,
You'll find it as we onward stretch;
But to make all assurance sure,
Behold it here in miniature.
She relish'd tea and butter'd toast,

Better than being snubb'd and school'd.

Liking no less to rule the roust,

Than feast upon the roast she ruled;
And though profuse of tongue withal,
Of cash was economical.

H.

EDINBURGH GRADUATION-DAY.

WEDNESDAY last was our Graduation-Day. However interesting this may appear to us, or to those who care any thing about the profession, it seems to attract very little notice on the part of the good people of the most excellent town of Edinburgh; and really, when one considers the plentifulness of doctors in those parts, it is impossible to feel any surprise at it. But to a student, particularly if he chance to be of a contemplative turn of mind, and addicted to dreaming, as I am, the day and the ceremonies thereof are full of interest, and even of solemnity. To me, when taking leave of my preceptors, the day seemed like that on which I took leave of my parents; and every act of disobedience, every impatient word, deed, and even thought, with a thousand sins of omission, seemed to rise up before me as something for which I was to repent and weep bitterly. To those too, who have opportunities of knowing the muteriel (as the French military writers say) of the medical students of Edinburgh, and what manner of young men from all quarters of the earth resort to that famous university for instruction in the noble art of medicine, and how devotedly industrious they must be and are, who feel something above the "hard and worldly phlegm" of those who are destined to slumber in everlasting oblivion, before they can present themselves for examination ;-still more to those who look more closely than the crowd into the feelings of the "college lads" (as the Edinburgh mob denominate them) to those who mark how many of the best of them (for these are the most prone to despond) grow pale and sickly in their progress, How many give up the pursuit in despair, and how many even sink untimely, and even rapidly, into their graves;-to such it is a gratifying spectacle to see those who have got honourably through all that is required of them, receive the reward of their labour, care, and perseverance; of their daily fatigue and nightly anxiety; and who, having given an earnest of all the industry, at least, that is called for in their profession, receive on this day their diplomas to practise it legitimately.

At twelve o'clock then, on the kalends of August, horá locoque solitis, all our examinations being passed, and our immortal inaugural dissertations valiantly defended, we assembled in the lecture-room of the Materia Medica Professor,-that very room to which we had often resorted on cold, dark, wintry mornings, at the inclement and unjustifiable hour of eight, some of us with eyes smarting from studies too far prolonged into the night, and others with cruel headachs revenging irregularities prolonged into the morning. Not to dwell longer on past griefs, here we were once more--but in the full light of the happiest day of our lives :-here we robed, that is, we arrayed ourselves in black gowns (borrowed, it was said in a whisper, from another learned profession):-and then, two and two, we proceeded at a pace which was an odd mixture of the measured step of a procession and the "skipping of the heart," as somebody has (or has not) called it, and in a most unmerciful rain, to the old library. Many, particularly those of a dark complexion, dark eyes, &c. in short, of what we call the melancholic temperament, were inclined to consider the weather inauspicious; but those of the sanguine cast thought it the best wea