When the poor, stupid husband is weary and starving,
  Anatomy leads them to give up the carving;
  And we drudges the shoulder of mutton must buy,
  While they study the line of the os humeri.

  If we ’scape from our troubles to take a short nap,
  We awake with a din about limestone and trap;
  And the fire is extinguished past regeneration,
  For the women were wrapt in the deep-coal formation.

  ’Tis an impious thing that the wives of the laymen,
  Should use Pagan words ’bout a pistil and stamen,
  Let the heir break his head while they fester a Dahlia,
  And the babe die of pap as they talk of mammalia.

  The first son becomes half a fool in reality,
  While the mother is watching his large ideality;
  And the girl roars uncheck’d, quite a moral abortion,
  For we trust her benevolence, order, and caution.

  I sigh for the good times of sewing and spinning,
  Ere this new tree of knowledge had set them a sinning;
  The women are mad, and they’ll build female colleges,—­
  So here’s to plain English!—­a plague on their ologies!

London Mag.

* * * * *

THE EDITOR’S ROOM.

July 28, 1828.

And so, most tasteful and provident public, you are going out of town on Saturday next?—­We envy you.  Mars is gone, and Sontag is gone, and Pasta is going—­and Velluti is out of voice—­and they are playing tragedies at the Haymarket—­and Vauxhall will never be dry again—­and the Funny Club are drenched to their skins every day—­and “the sweet shady side of Pall Mall” is a forgotten blessing.  You will be dull in the country if this weather continue—­but not so dirty as upon the Macadam.  So go.

We shall stay behind, with the Duke of Wellington, to look after business.  It would not do for either of us to be gadding, while Ireland, and Turkey, and Portugal want watching.  The times are getting ticklish.  The stocks are rising most dreadfully, as the barometer falls; and the Squirearchy are beginning to dread that the patridges will be drowned.  That will be a sad drawback from the delights of a two-shilling quartern-loaf.  For ourselves, we have plenty of work cut out for us, in this our abiding place.  The fewer the books which are published, the more we shall have to draw upon our own genius; and the duller the season, the more vivacious must we be to put our readers in spirits.  But we have consolation approaching in the shape of amusing work.  Immediately that parliament is up, the newspapers will begin to lie, “like thunder,” Tom Pipes would say.  What mysterious murders, what heart-rending accidents, what showers of bonnets in the Paddington Canal, what legions of unhappy children dropped at honest men’s doors!  We have got a file of the “Morning Herald” for the last ten years;—­and we give the worthy labourers