of the purses which are thrown away upon the stage, and which
generally contain from ten thousand ducats to a hundred thousand
pounds, being always filled with pieces of _tin_. Hence probably the
synonym.

ONE WHO DABBLES IN INK.--I do not mind telling you in confidence
that LORD BROUGHAM is _not_ the Editor of the _Family Herald_.

A VICTIM TO THE EAST WIND.--The best plan, my dear young lady, for
keeping the chaps off your lips is to wear a respirator.

* * * * *

THE HIGH-METTLED RAZOR.

AIR--"_See the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun._"--C.
DIBDIN.

Since of course we want razors when manhood's begun,
Lest profusion of beard should our faces o'errun,
A thousand strange methods are found every year,
And MECHI and RODGERS assail our young ear.
When we next, like a vain beau, direct that our crest,
Silver-mounted, should be on the handle impressed,
Scarcely scraping a hair in our downy estate,
The High-Mettled Razor first ranks among plate.

The next ten years turn out, and we need not now blush,
To be caught when we're soaping our beard with a brush;
For we _have_ one at length, and we need not say nay,
Should any one ask if we shave every day.
While alike born for scrapes in our life's daily course,
Always sure to come through with a cut, if not worse;
When we're barely shaved down just to what Fashion saith,
The High-Mettled Razor now bores us to death.

Grown rusty, used up, and turned dull as a spud,
Notched, blunted, and, always when used, drawing blood;
While, knowing his past deeds, his misdeeds we trace,
Tell, "this notch cut my finger, and this cut my face;"
And what dangers we've run, we could quickly count o'er,
As we wasted our time, and our temper, and gore;
When the shaving doth gall, and the steel our chins goad,
The High-Mettled Razor's put out of the road.

At length they've improved it, before 'tis top late,
And MECHI and RODGERS must bend to their fate,
And barbers will soon have to work the treadmill,
If their razors are brought to a daily stand still.
For now, with its works nearly hid from our view,
In the very same chair in which we must sit too,
While a music-box plays like a musical elf,
The High-Mettled Razor doth _shave us itself_!

* * * * *

WHYS FOR THE WISE.

Why cannot a "Constant Reader" write a