I once knew a country ostler—by name Peter Staggs—he was a lower species of the same genus—a sort of compound of my friend Tom and a waggoner—the delf of the profession. He was a character in his way; he knew the exact moment of every coach’s transit on his line of road, and the birth, parentage, and education of every cab, hack, and draught-horse in the neighbourhood. He had heard of a mane-comb, but had never seen one; he considered a shilling for a “feed” perfectly apocryphal, as he had never received one. He kept a rough terrier-dog, that would kill anything in the country, and exhibited three rows of putrified rats, nailed at the back of the stable, as evidences of the prowess of his dog. He swore long country oaths, for which he will be unaccountable, as not even an angel could transcribe them. In short, he was a little “varminty,” but very little. We will conclude this “lytle historie” with the epitaph of poor Peter Staggs, which we copied from a rail in Swaffham churchyard. “EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS. Poor Peter Staggs now rests beneath this rail, Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale; For twenty years he did the duties well, Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the ‘Bell.’ But Death stepp’d in, and order’d Peter Staggs To feed his worms, and leave the farmers’ nags. The church clock struck one—alas! ’twas Peter’s knell, Who sigh’d, ‘I’m coming—that’s the ostler’s bell!’” Peace to his manes! A HINT FOR POLITICIANS. “If you won’t turn, I will,” as the mill-wheel said to the stream. “Why did not Wellington take a post in the new Cabinet?” asked Dicky Sheil of O’Connell.—“Bathershin!” replied the head of the tail, “the Duke is too old a soldier to lean on a rotten stick.” Lord Morpeth intends proceeding to Canada immediately. The object of his journey is purely scientific; he wishes to ascertain if the Fall of Niagara be really greater than the fall of the Whigs. A PRO AND CON. “When is Peel not Peel?”—“When he’s candi(e)d.” GALVANISM OUTDONE. We have heard of the very dead being endowed, by galvanic action, with the temporary powers of life, and on such occasions the extreme force of the apparatus has ever received the highest praise. The Syncretic march of mind rectifies the above error—with them, weakness is strength. Fancy the alliterative littleness of a “Stephens” and a “Selby,” as the tools from which the drama must receive its glorious resuscitation! NEWS FOR THE SYNCRETICS. (Extracted from the “Stranger’s Guide to London.”) Bedlam, the celebrated receptacle for lunatics, is situated in St. George’s-fields, within five minutes’ walk of the King’s Bench. There is also another noble establishment in the neighbourhood of Finsbury-square, where the unhappy victims of extraordinary delusions are treated with the care and consideration their several hallucinations require.