collection of five hundred conundrums, necessary to
devote the spleen and melancholy with young
and old people." In the puzzle we are asked
why " quartering of places and pensions is
so unsatisfactory; " " How B. W. came to
ride in a chariot," and " Why the people
smoak the fresh boughs that are put into
the chimney."

A collection of choice cookery receipts,
toujours printed at Newcastle in this present
year, diversifies the more facetious contents
of the " histories and merriments; " but the
gem of this Newcastle coronal of canniness
is the " Pleasant and delightful history of
the unfortunate Daughter, set forth in two
parts." The prologue to this humorous yet
tragical poem is succinct, but eloquent:

      " The unfortunate son you have had before,
         Accept the daughter and then no more."

The unfortunate daughter's name was
Gillian, frequently abbreviated in the
progress of the poem into Jill, and a near
relative, we suspect, of the Jill who went up
the hill with Jack, to procure a pail of water.
However, this Gillian was the daughter of a
man to whom, being both bold and coy, she
caused much annoy; she called her father
"Sawcy Jack," and " bad names to his
face;" though so young (four years of age)
she was " bold enough to call her mistress
fool."

      " Her father went down the cellar trim
           His fortune was so bad,
        She cast the cellar door on him,
           And almost killed her dad."

She burned her schoolfellows' books, if
their looks displeased her. She ran away
from home, after her father's cellar
misadventure, justly thinking, if he should revive
that she would be "banged." As she was
running through the park she fell into the
well, and would have been drowned, as
Gillian " herself can testify." The keeper
took her home to her father.

      " Her father with a cudgel great
            Beheld her with a frown,
        He thought his daughter for to keep,
            But knocked the keeper down."

Thinking that he had killed the keeper,
Gillian's papa was constrained to " run away
with might and main." Gillian thought to
revive the keeper with aquavitæ, but gave
him aquafortis instead, which very nearly
poisoned him, but though he did not die, the
undutiful conduct of Gillian grieved her
father to the heart. As for that young lady,
the fear of punishment had induced her to
commit suicide:

       " By this time Gill herself had hanged
         Upon a rafter high
         To save herself from being " banged"
         For all her villany.
         Her father saved her life, 'tis said
         He cut her down in haste,"

       " Before that Gillian was quite well,
         And her did soundly baste.
         Oh! had the old man longer staid
         Till she had quite been hanged
         She then had saved herself 'tis said
         From being soundly ' banged.'"

Gillian's career appears after this to have
been one dismal course of villainy and " banging."
She was " banged " for baking the
children's clothes in the oven, when at
service with a farmer's wife. She was " banged
piteously," for frying pancakes at unseemly
times; she was " banged," and thrown down
stairs by her master for an accident which
happened to her while cutting the children's
meat on a trencher, and which is thus
apologetically related,

       " Now they shall understand
         What happened suddenly
         Let none at Gillian scoff
         For sure 'twas not her will
         To cut the boys' two fingers off
         Her humour to fulfil."

Thus ends the first canto of the Unfortunate
Daughter; in the second part Gillian is
spoken of as " Gillian, that fine girl, the glory
of the land, daughter unto William Pearl."
Her glory and her fineness, however, only
brought her into shame and sorrow. Wearied
with her home,

       " She then resolved to seek her fortune
         Did ask her father leave,
         And every day did importune
         And nothing else did crave
        To make her fortune she must go
        To range the world all round
        Her father willing was thereto
        And gave her twenty pound."

We cannot sufficiently praise the liberality
of the venerable William Pearl; but we
must be pardoned it we entertain a suspicion
that William was actuated by a strong desire
to get rid of Gillian for good and all, and it
was that caused him to open his purse so
widely.

The unfortunate daughter was speedily
knocked down, and robbed of her little all;
she was subsequently accused of stealing
gold and silver plate, and cast into jail,
and as "'size and sessions did draw near,"
was in great fear of being hanged. She
was however liberated, and married a worthy
shepherd who had been left by his uncles the
liberal provision of five hundred pounds a
year. It is now recorded of Gillian that she
was

            "——in her silk gown
              And many to her sends
              She never is without a crown
              To spend among her friends."
    

Alas! she had soon to say, " Dum felix eris
multos numerabis amicos;" the shepherd
happens to ascertain some particulars of her
former misconduct, and being a shepherd of
strict morality, forthwith turned her out of