My small quantity is—­

  Half a pint of good beer. 
  Two ounces of galls. 
  Half an ounce of copperas. 
  Ditto of gum Arabic. 
  Quarter of an ounce of rock alum.

It will never mould or lose its substance or colour.  The large quantity will bear half as much beer for future use.  If it thickens, thin it with beer.

I adopt the Italian ladies’ method of keeping the roving of a bit of silk stocking in the glass, which the pen moving, preserves the consistency of the liquid and keeps the fingers from it.

If you have seen better ink than this, I yield my pre-eminence.[4]

BLACKY.

    [4] Our correspondent’s communication is in appearance “full,
        fair, and free,” as all “representations” ought to be.—­ED.

* * * * *

SONG.

(For the Mirror.)

  O pledge me not in sparkling wine,
    In cups with roses bound;
  O hail me at no festive shrine,
    In mirth and music’s sound. 
      Or if you pledge me, let it be
        When none are by to hear,
      And in the wine you drink to me,
        For me let fall a tear.

  Forbear to breathe in pleasure’s hall,
    A name you should forget;
  Lest echo’s faintest whisper fall
    On her who loves thee yet. 
      Or if you name me, let it be
        When none are by to hear;
      And as my name is sigh’d by thee,
        For me let fall a tear.

  O think not when the harp shall sound
    The notes we lov’d again,
  And gentle voices breathe around,
    I mingle in the strain. 
      Oh! only think you hear me when
        The night breeze whispers near;
      In hours of thought, and quiet, then
        For me let fall a tear.

  Seek me not in the mazy dance,
    Nor let your fancy trace
  Resemblance in a timid glance;
    Or distant form and face. 
      But if you seek me, be it when
        No other forms are near;
      And while in thought we meet again,
        For me let fall a tear.

L.M.N.

* * * * *

MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.

* * * * *

BULL-BAITING IN SUFFOLK.

(For the Mirror.)

Lavenham Market-place was once considered as one of the most celebrated “theatres for cruel scenes” in the county of Suffolk,

  “Where bulls and dogs in useless contest fought,
  And sons of reason satisfaction sought
  From sights would sicken Feeling’s gentle heart,
  Where want of courage barb’d Oppression’s dart."[5]

    [5] Ribbans’s “Effusions.”

On every anniversary of the Popish powder-plot, it was customary here to bait bulls; and it was then pretty generally understood that no butcher could legally slaughter a bull without first baiting him; or in default of doing so, he must burn candles in his shop so long as a bit of the bull-beef remained there for sale.