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A REGULAR FIX.
I CARS not whether poets sigh
"Parting is sorrow sweet,"
'Tis sweoter far to meet.
When weaker feelings flow,
Is "arthur, must you gof"
The other night I took "pot luck"
Alone at General Long's,
But sweet were Ethel's songs.
When Ethel whispered low,
Oh! Arthur must you go?"
As sure as summer comes I grieve,
My holidays are short,
The girls at Manor Court. t The old, old tale, "What, go away
Before the Flower Show,
So, Arthur, must you go t"
Only last night I met by chance
A dear old friend of mine—
He asked me home to dine.
"Why ;—am I getting slow?
"Old fellow, must you go?"
It is not pleasant every day
Invariably to find,
I've left my heart behind.
Some kinder lot bestow f If people wish me to remain
Why should I have to go?
Revered And Honoured Sir,—When a man has arrived at the period of Nicholas, he is not over likely to take a sanguineous and enthnsiastical view of human nature; but never you believe, Mr. Editor, what the cynic would tell ycu with regard to the innate depravity of the mortal heart. It is only when a man is really down upon his luck that ho knows how much good nature and benevolence is possessed by those around him, a conspicuous instance of such having been your generous insertion last week of my countrybution at onormous length at a time when my literary earnings are almost the only omolumentary resources which a ruinons old man can metaphorically fall back upon, although he considers that somo of your editorial commentations, however well meant, were less calculated to convey tho idea of your regarding him in the light of Age and Virtue under a temporary cloud of adversity than of ono who was rather a disreputable old tout.
Your Prophet has likewise to acknowledge the extreme kindness of his temporary landlady, Mrs. Chipi'8, than whom I am sure a more unliable person, though, perhaps, a little middle-aged; and remarkable, indeed, havo been the increased kindness since the appearance of your paper (Number Twenty-six of the New Serious) whero she was put in print, she having been previously rather distrustful whether Nicholas was indeed the eminont man he represented, but on seeing him to be really your Sportive Editor, and as such in the possession of a moderate but certain income, immediately came up-stairs to inquire whether tho Prophet would object to such a thing being offered as a few shrimps for a relish to his tea, and very nice they were. Yes, Sir, woman's heart is indeed a well-spring of affection; and I send you a slight instalment of a poem on the subject in emulation of the "Elogy in a Country Churchyard." I call it an " Elegy in a Bermondsey Parlour," and the first line must be understood as purely
figurative, taking such a liberty in real life being what Nicholas would never dream of doing so if sober:—
Here rests his head upon the lap of Crtpps,
A Prophet who to Fun was well beknown; But Fortune frowned on his autumnal tips, And Gardevisure marked him for her own." And may send you other specimens of what he will venture to invoke as the Eligiac Mews.
But if you, Sir, have been more than kind, and if Mrs. Cripps he all my fancy painted her, only in still more roseate hues, how different has been the treatment he receives from many who ought to have known better!
Never until Michaelmas had your Prophet been behind hand with the rent for his Belgravian mansion, and to all his servants he wa really benevolent, without tho longwindedness of a person by the name of Buskin, which has recently been writing to the papers on the subject, and seems to be a sort of a houso-agent, though a little unintelligible. And yet, Sir, what were the expressions of the landlord when told that Nicholas must relinquish his palatial abode, and would be glad of a little time to make up the quarter's rentI Sir, he said, "I am glad to get rid of you at any price, and to free my house from tho incubus of a notorious betting-man, who has at length met with tho proper fate of his disgraceful avocations;" and this, Sir, after many is the glass of sherry-wine that ho has partook at my expense.'
This is not the only indignity your Nicholas has had to endure. His valet, meeting him promiscuous at a public I use, absolutely turned up his purse-proud nose at one who had seen better days, and spoke of him to the landlady as "a low reporter;" but I remembered the dignity of Literature, Sir, as ono entrusted with your confidence, and bearing likewise in mind the period at which I have arrived, Nicholas foreboro to smite the arrogant menial to the earth, and being a very nicely sanded floor, and only regarded him with a I contumelious expression to which the glare of the angriest basilisk i I a gentle glance of connubial affection. And then, Sir, leaving the . house and paying my score with a conscious dignity of a honest j though a ruinous old man, I wended my way to another establishment, where a man is still treated as a man in spite of unmerited pecuniary i affliction, and washed away the memory of the insult in a glass of I something warm.
! A few of my friends are talking of "A Nicholas Testimonial," I in recognition of his services to the Turf. You may possibly re| member, Sir—not that you know much about sportive matters, nor i ever did, though the ablest of editors and the best of friends—that a similar compliment was recently paid to Admiral Rocs.
I have a good thing for next year's Derby.
IN THE NAME OF THE PROFIT—FIGS.
Fort what purpose do our very intelligent readers suppose that the British army is maintained in its present state of efficiency? For the defence of our hearths and homes ? No. For the prevention of foreign invasion Y No. To quell the Fenians? No. For the ^glory of the British name? No. For the admiration of little boys and servant-maids? Oh, dear, no. For none of these 'high purposes is our army kept up, but only for thespecial benefit and I profit of the British grocer and tea-dealer. At least so his organ of j currant literature, The Grocer, informs us.
I ■ i The authorities at Woolwich and Chatham have lately been experiI menting on the possibility of putting a good many pence weekly into i the pockets of the British soldier without increasing the army estimates I one farthing, by supplying him with his beer, tea, coffee, and sugar at wholesale prices. The experiment, as far as it has gone, has sucI ceeded admirably, and has, in tho case of AVoolwich and Chatham, ! shown that our soldiers can do very well without that gorging corI morant, the canteen man. But tho Woolwich grocers are not to bo i done out of their profits upon the sanded sugar, and birch-broomed 1 tea that they hitherto sold to the British soldier. They meet, they 1 pass resolutions, they unearth some forgotten rule contained in the I "Regulations and Orders for the Army," to the effect that it is j desirablo that the troops should bo supplied with groceries from local sources. They have held meetings, they have passed resolutions, they have written to the organ of their order, The Grocer, they are going to j petition Parliament, and intend carrying their complaints to the foot of the throne if necessary. The British soldier always has been their lawful prey, and they mean him always to remain so.
The Artillery barrack canteen has violated overy principle of the British constitution, Magna Charta, the bill of rights, &c, &c, by | selling good groceries at wholesale prices, and has actually had the I impudence to refuse the British tradesman access to his former victims, j Not only this, tho canteen is now manned with a staff of soldier assistants in black coats, and white ties, in tho place of drunkon, dirty potboys, and instead of being ruled by a voracious canteen keeper, it is watched over by a committee of officers who havo the assurance to see that all the liquors are of the best quality.
Is this to be borne '( No. They have sworn it on their scales and sugar scoops, and they are going to memorialize the War-office to restore things to their former footing.
Cunning grocers and tca-dealera! They well know their best friends are the powers that be at the Horse Guards and Pall Mall, who, if sufficiently worried by these tradesmen, are exceedingly likolytoshow themselves what they always have been, the enemies of the units of our army, and take their stand on their old and stupid regulations.
;3Lnsfo<TS to Crjrrrspnbcirts.
Sioka. — "The Pilgrimage" is not quite in our walk. "The Strains" were better, but unsuitable in subject. If parmacoti is good for an inward bruise, it might bo good for strains—still, if you get the effect you must not mind a little straining after it.
ErKEEn, jun., uses a good deal of bad language to convince us that Scotch is not jargon. What will he say when he learns that Miis. Bkown is a Scotchman? We are not alarmed by his awful threat that he will cease to "take in Fun "—he never has taken it in—it has only been an outward application; and, as to his "advising his friends to do the same," his friends, if he have any, will know him too well to listen to his advice. Only we stipulate that he shall spend the bawbee so saved in paying for Eikeeh, juvenissimus, the extra fbr "manners," which have been so neglected in the case of E., junior.
H.H.B.—Author of a "Fly Leaf" will find a fly left at the office till called for—declined with thanks.
A r-OSER FOR TUB Teetotallehb. Why do we all drink table beer? Because every one has his weak p'int.
FROM OUR STALL.
There is as much difference between tho audienco that assembles at the Lyceum on the first night of a new piece, and the usual " first night" attendants at a theatre, as between a special train and an ordinary ditto. Mr. Fechter doubtless feels complimented by this important fact. Everyone knows that any play produced under the management of this celebrated Parisian-London actor, who is the theatrical incarnation of the entente cordiale, is sure to have been the subject of careful study, minute research, and elaborate detail. Civilized people like their dramatic food, as well as their animal and vegetable refreshment, cooked, and not raw, and Mr. Fechter is about the only chef we have in London. He does not produce a piece in large lumps on tho principle that an "oil-striker" would give a dinner if left to his own devices. "Here you are! hot! hot! all hot! mock turtle hot! fish hot! joints hot ! puddings hot! brandy sauce hot ! port hot! sherry hot! punch hot! and lots of everything! Eat, clatter, be happy and dyspeptic!" No. Me. Fechter serves up daintier dishes, fit for refined palates. In placo of plum-pudding ho offers you an omelette; instead of punch he presents you with tokay in a curiously carved and quaintly-cut wine-glass. Hence the special audience we speak of, hence the presence of literary and artistic notabilities. It is pleasant to see the authors of famous books and poems, and painters of famous pictures, beaming from their private I boxes like ordinary mortals. Hence the charming toilettes and the charming faces in tho stalls, the handsomo snowy opera cloaks, and the still handsomer, snowier shoulders. But we must not pursue this dangerous though charming theme. We know our place, and when a description of that sort of thing is required, we move aside and yield the pen to tho author of Lady Clare, The Miller's Daughter, and The Queen of the May.
However, with the strongest predilection for Mn. Fechter, and his style of "mounting" his productions, we cannot commend him for his choice of the piece with which he has opened this, his present season. The Watch Cry is not worthy of tho adapter, the theatre, the company, or the management. The Watch Cry is entirely devoid of any central interest whatever. The incidents and the complications arising from them are extremely ingenious, and the situations aro striking and [ dramatic. But these advantages will not atone for the complete absence of any love story, for the entire lack of what is called in the greenroom "female interest," and the weakness of every character except the principal one. On the first night The Watch Cry lasted above three hours, and three hours, unless there be a strong love interest or very excellent comedy, is a long time. In one of Shakespeare's greatest "sensation" scenes, the trial scene in the Merchant of Venice, where a Jew is about to slice flesh from off a Christian's breast, every now and then Gratiano has an amusing line to speak. Even when cruelty is defeated by it quibble, and the sword of the law hangs over the head of the disappointod Hebrew, Gratiano talks comedy. The scene would be too horrible but for this relief. Possibly tho "fool" appears upon the heath with Lear, for the same good reason. The one effect of the new drama, the giving of the watch-cry to the Palace guard by tho emaciated prisoner, who is supposed to have lost the power of speech, is admirable, and had the effect of rousing tho audience to enthusiasm. We were sorry though that Mr. Fechteu had to remain dumb throughout a whole act, for the sake of producing this effect, though now that we think again he was not dumb, his face and his eyes spoke though his tongue was silent. It is needless to Bay that Mr. Fechtku acted throughout with grace and truthfulness, with the picturesque tenderness of a gipsy-mother, and the fiery chivalry of a knighterrant. The rest of the dramatis personae were mere stage lay-figures. No actors could have done more with them than the members of the troupe of tho Lyceum. The parts were long, and that was all, with the exception of the one allotted Mr. Raymond, who played a rough, unscrupulous bravo excellently. Wo fear that The Watch Cry is not destined to be a success. There are rumours of Edgar of ltavenswood and of Romeo. Mil. Fechter should always make love—he does it so well.
King John has been revived at Drury-lane, with great pomp and splendour. If we defer our notice of it, it is because King John will keep, whereas The Watch Cry is composed of materials that are perishable. An account of tho two hundred suits of armour, of the two hundred supernumeraries enshrined therein, of cruel John, unfortunate Arthur, ambitious Constance, artful Pandulph, scrupulous Hubert, abused Austria, and gallant Fitzroy Faulconbridge, may safely be postjKjned, for they will be to be seen—alive— for many nights to come.
PHILOSOPHY IN SPORT. The savants, not contented with tho comicalities they are _gnifcy of in their serious publications, are going to bring out a "Comic Scientific" paper. They propose to call it Gammon and Spinach—why not Bubble and Squeak, which is what it is likely to do.
JOHN BULL IN "LITTLE FRANCE."
Some time sinco we gave a picture of "Mossoo" in Littlo France, now it is John Bull's turn to be marked down in the samo locality. The cafe which ho most frequents in this neighbourhood is named after a French victory in Italy, let us say Magenta, and it imports into the centre of London an air of tho Boulevards, which makes Jones, who has been twice to Paris for throe days, say that it reminds him of that delightful city. But it has a charm for people who know more about Paris than oven Jones—people who lift their hats easily to Madame, at the comptoir, and who can manago more lingo than Jones. J Ones is noblo in his first sentence to the garcton, but if that worthy makes a reply that requires a further remark in answer, Jones returns to his native tongue, which at all events he does not speak quite so imperfectly ag French.
To tho placid philosopher who pens theso lines, tho S— the Magenta (the P. P. begs pardon) is a source of endless and calm dolight. He nas seen Podger, Bodger, and Snodger, City clerks, come in and order plain chops and plain potatoes, things which are simply raw material in tho eyes of a French cook, and grumblo at the beer, which is about the best in London, for tho plain reason that the adulteration of British beer is a science yet unlearnt by the foreign proprietary of the Magenta. However, as P. B. and S. don't know beer when they get it pure, tho Placid Philosopher can only pity their ignorance, and pray for the continuance of that of tho foreign proprietor. He also soes a gentleman who is much addiated to athletic sports come in with a friend, who is going to dine. Athletic party "has dined," but will " tako a snack" for company's sake. Athletic purty takes about a dozen diBhes, winding up with plum pudding and sweot omelette, and is horrified to find tho bill exceeds five shillings.
Tho Placid Philosopher not being athletic, enjoys a cosy littlo dinner, say half-a-dozen courses, and drains his modest bottle of Macon, and thon takes his cigar and his one luxury, a glass—say a glass—of Chartreuse Jaune, and ho reflects that ho might have dined for double the amount, on half the choice of dishes, with one-tenth of the comfort, and he begins to agree with Jones that it is "Tray jolly de doenay issee."
Of the varieties of people who frequent the cafe no catalogue can be given on a smaller scalo than that of' the British Museum. Besides John Bull, travelled and untravolled (who U moro especially tho
subject of the Placid Philosopher's essay), thore are foreigners from overy quarter, Spaniards, Italians, Germans, French^and Russians; and the things they eat, and the way in which they eat them Btrike wonder and sometimes alarm into the breast of Jones. How such a polyglot custom is met is a mystery only to be unravelled by the polyglottest garfon that ever totted up Vaddition and carried twenty dishes and throe bottles of different wines in his head at once. The Placid Philosopher verily believes that if Chano walked into the Magenta to-morrow and asked for puppy pie, that gallon would without an instant's hesitation, inform him in the best Pekinese that it was not on the carte. And how polite he is to the ladies! For ladies do come thore; quiet little Frenchwomen who dine all alone, quite at ease and unmolested, and Monsieur who keeps the boot shop not far off (and is unconscious of the terrific meaning of the inscription over his door, "Percussion Screwed Boots,") brings Madame and his daughter, and they dine very comfortably, and very cheaply.
Of course tho Briton Rampageous who doesn't like these "confounded French messes," and the Briton Snobbish, who puts up an eyeglass he can't see through, when a lady enters the cafe, occasionally stray into the precincts, or people intrude whom one would not ask into one's drawing-room; but on the whole this cafe in Little France is quiet, and pleasant, and respectable, and a man who doesn't care to have a mountainous joint bleeding undor his nose, and who is not eaten up with the desire to pay half-a-crown for a bottle of wine which Me. Gladstone has arrangod to let him have at eighteenpence, may enjoy a good and cheap dinner there, and—oh, rare privilege and most valuable!—may smoke his cigar afterwards, without stirring and without incommoding his neighbour. And that neighbour! Why such is the influence of the place he will allow you to ask him if he objects to smoking while he is eating, and drop into & chat, just as if von were not both Englishmen.
"Pat! Charles; encore de Chartreuse!"
Now ready, printed on Toned Paper, price Twopence,
To Advertisers.—Our largely increasing circulation compelling M to go to press earlier, no advertisements can be received after the Thursday previous to publishing day.
London: rrinted bj JUDD & GLASS, Phccnix Works, St. Andrew's Hill, Doctors' Commons, ami Published (for the Proprietors) by THOMAS BAKKK,
at 80, Fleet-street, K.C.—November 18, 1865.
CAUGHT IN THE TOILS.
BY AN INMATE OF LA TRAPPE.
AINT ANTHONY, so legends toll,
From diabolic imps.
They jumped like agile shrimps.
They played—upon their noses—tunes,
His notice to engage.
They frisked as hat, or mouse, or midge
The studies of the sage.
Despite their antics quaint.
Completely floored the saint.
On reading for the Bar.
Miss Jones !—And here we are i
My cab is two-and-six.
I'm running awful ticks!
I waste my time from morn till night;
I never sit in Court.
I find my money short.
Most clearly ought to be :—
Has played the deuce with me!
PROM OUR STALL.
The astonishment of the good folks who crowded to every available seat in both pit and gallery, at the charming little Prince of Wales' Theatre, last Saturday evening, was too good a sight to be lost. What could it all mean? Everybody seemed to be shaking hands with everybody else. "Ah, how are you, old fellow?" "Delighted to see you!" Of course you would never miss such a night as this!" These were the salutations which began in the refreshment room at the top of the staircase, travelled round the dress-circle, descended into the stalls, and were nodded from nearly all the private boxes. The audience seemed a large happy family. Its members in their wild, or public state, no doubt can scratch as well as coo, and put up their backs or purr; they can love, and hate, and snarl, and soothe, but their claws are very often drawn in, and then all shake hands and are friends. The happy family was anxious to see what Ms. Robertson —well-known as the author of David Garrick —had got to say about society, and to settle whether the Liverpool critics were correct in describing his latest dramatic production as a very admirable comedy, and one which was likely to make some stir in town. A careful study of the demeanour of the audience at a very early period of the evening, proved the truth of the provincial criticisms. When the curtain drew up, all fell back in their seats as usual, and seemed prepared for something good, perhaps, but still somothing of the old sort. But Mb. Robertson's bright, sparkling dialogue, his home truths, his kindly affectation of cynicism, his similes, and his keen appreciation of the little weaknesses of the world we live in, soon woke up tho audience from its conventional apathy, and then all appeared to bend forward in their seats, and after one look all round to see if the impulse was general, their faces seemed to say, "We have got some good stuff here!" The boldness of the title of Mr. Robebtson's •mart little comedy naturally provokes criticism, but he is such a charming story-teller, ho shows his audience so thoroughly how he
enjoys what he is telling them; it is so evident he feels what he writes, and that he prefers to set before them a rough lump of silver to ever so much glittering electro, that the discussions which wax warm when the curtain first falls are forgotten, and the errors to which they allude forgiven long before the plot is worked out. Thus it is that the inevitable suggestions about the enclosure scene in tho first act, the gambling and ball-room business in the second, and the election business in the last are extinguished by the brilliancy of the style of the author, who is complimented on all sides as tho play proceeds, and publicly applauded when the curtain falls. It has been unanimously conceded that a play has rarely been better acted. Fi N's compliments are late in the day, but they are as real and sincere as those of his contemporaries. He has fallen in love, he is afraid to say how many times, with the fair proprietress of the little theatre:—so frequent indeed and so bold have been his avowals, that on the present occasion the fear of being fulsome almost closes his mouth. How he has longed ever since Saturday week to find himself on the bench in the enclosure pleading instead of Mr. Sydney Bancroft, his devotion of many years standing, he need not say; and how he has been haunted by a jimp little figure in such a white and mauve dress, a figure that sheds tears, and looks, oh, so mournful, and says, "Sydney," in a voice as soft as sealskin, he will not trust himself to relate. Bravo Messrs. Clarke and Ray, proprietors of the Morning Earthquake; bravo Mr. Sydnby Bancroft, Tory candidate and lover; bravo Mr. Dewar, talented translator of Horace, leader-writer and good fellow par excellence ■; and brav-issimo-itsimo Mr. Hare, primmest of aristocrats, and most finished of actors. If ever Lord Ptarmigant on any future evening hears a very loud guffaw when he is emboldened to say, "Lady Ptarmigant, it is not often I speak, goodness knows," let him remember that it is his faithful Fun who intends to make London ring with his praises. But you are all good children to give the old gentleman such a treat.
Motto For A Smoking Philosopher.—A short pipe and a merry one. TOWN TALK.
By The Saunterer In Society.
ND what will Exeter Hall think of its favourite nigger after the spectacle presented in Jamaica? The black has much of the ■wild beast in him it would seem, and neither slavery nor libcity can root it out of him. Tho Emancipation party in America will do well to pause in their career of mistaken humanity. They must educate Sambo, and well too, before they turn him loose on tho defenceless South, or they will be answerable for a recurrence of the same atrocities which mako our blood curdlo in tho news from Jamaica.
Poon Tom Sayeks is dead, and has been buried amid the tears and uproar of an immense crowd of admirers. We must not be horrified because the mourners on the occasion did not behave with what refined people call decorum. I have no doubt the sorrow was genuine enough, and there were some bright instances of disinterested friendship and affection revealed in connection with his death. It is recorded of him that with all his science and Btrength ho was no bully, and even when struck by some one who lost temper with him did not return the blow. That is a fine trait and an argument in favour of fisticuffs. Let any one go and livo a little while among the Cornish miners, and seo how they—after having slapt one another's faces and pulled one another's hair—have recourse to tho knife: and then he will probably agree with me, that it will be a bad time for England when the use of tho "mauleys" is no longer cultivated. Tom Sayeks was a hero, with not more faults than most heroes, and perhaps with more generosity.
So the great University swindle is exploded! I have often wondered that it hasn't been done before. Parents and guardians— especially tho latter—must have been strangely short-sighted on this point. They send a lad up to Oxford with an allowance that soon proves insufficient, but they don't think of finding out why, or they would discover that it is not only the tradesman who robs tho undergraduate, but the Don also. Nothing but a sympathetic love of plunder can account for the way in which college authorities leave the lad unprotected against the attacks of harpy tradesmen. But the harpy tradesman lays ont his wares for sale, and that is all. When they are bought he sends them in, and often has to wait an unreasonable time for his money—sometimes doesn't get it. But the college authorities pretend to stand in loco parentis, and they compel the lad to take what they have to sell, and to pay an exorbitant price for it. The complaint, as it stands in the papers, is that bread and butter of an inferior quality aro forced on the undergraduates at very high prices. But there are other grievances that aim more nearly at the principle of the university, and that might be discussed with advantage. There are tutor's fees—and who ever got any good out of his college tutor P There aro library fees—and how few libraries possess books really of use to the student? And there are college dues—and who ever yet discovered,—when everything a man has, or ha6 not, of his college is strictly charged for,—what those dues could be?
Government offices are as extravagant in tho general as they are mean in the particular. That wasteful establishment the War-office discharged some of its clerks last year under circumstances of more than meanness—of downright dishonesty. A somewhat similar injustice inflicted by tho India Office on a retired officer, tho Marquis St. Maurice, who sorved in the old Company's forces, is a further instance of official obstinacy. On a mere quibble, which has not even the merit of being founded on fact, this gentleman is being defrauded of a portion of that small pittance which is held sufficient reward for a man who has spent the best years of his life in the service. Can any one devise a scheme to prevent injustice from being first perpetrated and then perpetuated by an ingenious system of disconnected and irresponsible Boards? Wo want an officer like the old Roman tribune—not connected with the House—to examine into all torts and grievances. Don't I pity the poor Marquis! He has been wasting his time in trying to knock something into Sir Charles Wood's head. Why, only the other day he was thrown out hunting,
and his head came in contact with a stone wall. But it's the wall that stands in most need of repairing, they say. _ I Dropt into the Oxford the other night to welcome a fresh importation of Offenbach, The Market Girh. It is very sparkling and pretty —the finale in particular being very jolly. Airs out of some of his other operettas have been introduced into it, which I think rather a pity. When shall we have a wise revision of the licensing laws, to permit the performance of these little operettas in full. The selections aro charming enough, but they cannot do justice to the entire composition.
A SENSIBLE IDEA.
My love, you've been and bound my heart
In tresses of your golden hair,
That reached its mark and settled there.
Upon the anguish that I feel;
And so I try a last appeal.
It seems to me a little queer,
And very far from oumme ilfattt,
In favour of some later beau.
But I've a certain claim on you;
In quite a business ptmrt of view.
I beg to say that if I lend
A certain sum in " money down"
(Say Jonb8, or Robinson, or Brown),
always do so on the chance
Of getting; back the £ s. <£.,
To Messrs. J. and R. and B.
If I were in the legal walk
•Of life—you'll give me leave to state—
Without a fee of six and eight.
No great objection to the rule—
Is littlo better than a fool.
Now, lately I've been laying out
A lot of heart and soul on you;
You'll see the proper thing to do.
A trifle in the shape of tin!
It's very well for you to say
That I wus never asked to throw
That's very true. You took 'em, though!
But, false one, fail not to devete
And send us off a ten pun' note!
THE INCORRECT KE-ARD.
Fancy Shakspeare'b Falconbridgo pronouncing calf-skin "ke-alfskin." This is what is positively done by an actor at Drury-lane Theatre, in tho course of a singularly unintelligent reading of the part. We remember to have once heard a ko-ountryman speak of a "ke-art-load of ke-arrots;" but, apart from his having a natural imperfection of speech, his accent did not exactly strike us as a model worthy imitation by anybody pretending to play the more important of ShakspeAre's characters. By the bye, how would Mr. Anderson pronounce tho words "care canon," if he had to say them? he would tell us he ke-ouldn't.
Why is a horse like the letter 0? Because G makes it go.
And what is the difference between this conundrum and my aunt who squints? One is a query with an answer; the other is an aunt, sir, with a queer eye.