The milkmen publish scores of works on Blanco White and Paley, The tailors make false quantities, and scribble fustian daily; The pastry-cooks to Tartarus consign their ice and jellies, sirs, And oyster-girls read Milton's works, or blasphemies by Shelley, sirs. Run, sweepers, run, 'tis now the time for lecturing, Ev'ry man must learned be in these wise days. The postmen to belles lettres their attention then will turn all, Run, sweepers, run, 'tis now the time for lecturing, To know his Plato soon will be the butler's chief ambition, sirs, In equity our coachmen versed, to drive shall cease; Fismongers shall read from the Delphin large edition, sirs, And poulterers on Turkey write, with plates of Greece. Tallow-chandlers essays give on dipthongs, sure as fate, sirs, And dustmen learn to venerate the ashes of the great, sirs; Pickle-men discuss Saint Paul as easy as Salt Petre, sirs, While coalheavers shall count their sacks to every kind of metre, sirs. Run, sweepers, run, 'tis now the time for lecturing, When those times arrive, quite different from now, my friends, Reason, worth, and learning will assert their claims; Duchesses will knead and wash, and dukes will hold the plough, my friends, Fruitless will be titles then, and all high names; Marquises must clean their shoes, and earls attend the stable, sirs, Barons stir the kitchen fire, and viscounts wait at table, sirs; Come, then, boys, my shirtless boys, who love such gay diversity, No church, no king, no "nothing else," but Gow'r-street Run, sweepers, run, 'tis now the time for lecturing, Signed, on behalf of the Privy Council of Stinkomalee, J. A., H. B., and T. C. On the Departure of a certain Count for Italy; whence he has sent some Italian Music in Score for the Opera. By S. R., Esq. He has quitted the countess-what can she wish more? "One problem was given to me to work, which I did in a twinkling. Given, C. A. B. to find Q. "Answer. Take your CAB through Hammersmith, turn to the left, just before you come to Brentford, and Kew is right before you."- Gower Street Undergraduate. "On Saturday se'nnight," says an evening paper, "three of the King's pages returning from Windsor with his Majesty's bag and letters in the dog-cart, just as the horse entered the outer gate of the lodge he was seized with the staggers, and falling, overturned the vehicle into a ditch; luckily the passengers escaped without any serious injury." It is curious to see how localities alter circumstances, even in the same county. In Windsor this accident is styled staggering; in Reading, turning over three pages at once would have been called skipping. TO JOHN BULL. SIR,-I feel great diffidence in addressing you, and should hesitate a long time before I ventured to throw myself upon your consideration, and through you upon that of the public; but the state of my case is desperate, and since it has recently been decided that beggary is a crime, and that those who dare to relieve distress with their own money are punishable by law, I prefer at once appealing to you. The fact is, sir, that I am a superannuated lady's footman, my present situation is unbearable,-I began the world in the service of the Margravine of Anspach, and was then accounted-I say it with all possible modesty - a remarkably fine young man. Her highness never admitted low persons (I mean in stature) to the honour of her livery; and many a time, until the present Sir Lumley Skeffington chose a cream-coloured coach for her highness instead of a yellow, have I, under favour of the foreign scarlet, been taken for one of the élite of Carlton House. The Margravine went away, and I became the hanger-on of a duchess's carriage, who shall be nameless, since she is no more. The black breeches and gold bands did not quite suit my taste, and I rejoice to find that they are now out to all intents and purposes. However, speaking figuratively, as well as literally, I hung on until her grace dropped off, then me voilà! I had an offer from the Lord Mayor's household. The livery was handsome, and one changes one's master there, like an almanack, every year; but the Lord Mayors have an unpleasant smell about them, and they go to the Old Bailey and the Blue-coat School, and all those horrible places, where one might catch unpleasant disorders, so I declined, and made a push at Pall Mall-but it would not do. I then, sir, thought of Mr. Coutts, the late very respectable banker,-but just as I expected a character from the late Mr. Raymond, of Drury-lane Theatre, he was taken ill and died, and when I was about to renew my negotiations, a melancholy circumstance occurred which determined me not to engage in a place where I might, perhaps, be kicked out at a moment's warning. There was a house, which shall be nameless, in Surrey, where an opening presented itself, but tallowcandles were whispered to me, and I fell back. I had at that time a fancy for Sir H-W- W-'s service, for I thought the sugar-loaf buttons were becoming; but the story about the sister and the annuity disgusted me, and I cut that. So I went on, sipping and smelling and never coming to the point, like Macheath, in the operative mendicant's opera; for I was made for a lady's footman, and I will, even now, back myself against any other two yards and an eighth of humanity behind a carriage, or at candlelight in that capacity. However, to my distress. I embarked in the service of a noveau riche, (not Hayne, upon my honour,) one of the mushrooms who blazed for a season, and then not only went out, but went off; me voilà! again, I looked round me. I was then nearly fifty, called myself young, bought Tyrian dye, which turned my hair blue, and rubbed the bald place on the crown of my head with Russia oil, which smelt unpleasantly. Still no place; the ladies all voted me too old, too fat, too this thing and too that thing, until at last, dear Mr. Bull, I got a situation in a place where I dare say you have never been, but which I know you have heard of, called Montagu-place, Bedford-square, next door but one to your excellent friend, Mrs. Ramsbottom. And now hear me. In this dreadful solitude, all one sees is the new pointed house of Old Cavendish (what a place for a Cavendish!) at the corner a mews, where a man lets glass-coaches, (I heard Mr. Raikes make a joke at my master's about a singer in a glass-coach, he called him Veluti in Speculum; Mr. Raikes dines with us on off days, and always makes this joke everywhere,) and a gothic window out of a modern house in Russell-square. Well, sir, in this |