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BISHOP

In Cambridge, this title is not confined to the dignitaries of the church; but port wine, made copiously potable by being mulled and burnt, with the addenda of roasted lemons all bristling like angry hedge-hogs (studded with cloves,) is dignified with the appellation of Bishop: 

Beneath some old oak, come and rest thee, my hearty;
  Our foreheads with roses, oh! let us entwine! 
And, inviting young Bacchus to be of the party,
  We’ll drown all our troubles in oceans of wine!

And perfumed with Macassar or Otto of roses,
  We’ll pass round the BISHOP, the spice-breathing cup,
And take of that medicine such wit-breeding doses,
  We’ll knock down the god, or he shall knock us up.

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GAZETTED AND IN THE GAZETTE.

These terms imply very different things.  The son of a nobleman is gazetted, as a cornet in a regiment, and all his friends rejoice.  John Thomson is in the Gazette, and all his friends lament.

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UNFORTUNATE CASE.

A zealous priest in the north of Ireland missed a constant auditor from his congregation, in which schism had already made depredations.  “What keeps our friend Farmer B——­away from us?” was the anxious question proposed by the vigilant minister to his assistant, “I have not seen him among us,” continued he, “these three weeks; I hope it is not Protestantism that keeps him away,” “No,” was the reply, “it is worse than that.”  “Worse than Protestantism?  God forbid it should,—­Deism?” “No, worse than that.”  “Worse than Deism! good heavens, I trust it is not Atheism.”  “No, worse than Atheism!” “Impossible, nothing can be worse than Atheism!” “Yes, it is, your honour—­it is Rheumatism!”

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LIQUIDATING CLAIMS.

During a remarkable wet summer, Joe Vernon, whose vocal taste and humour contributed for many years to the entertainment of the frequenters of Vauxhall Gardens, but who was not quite so good a timist in money matters as in music, meeting an acquaintance who had the misfortune to hold some of his unhonoured paper, was asked by him, not uninterestedly, how the gardens were going on?  “Oh, swimmingly!” answered the jocose Joe.  “Glad to hear it,” retorted the creditor, “their swimming state, I hope, will cause the singers to liquidate their notes.”

* * * * *

Mr. Samuel Deacon, a most respectable Baptist minister, who resided at Barton in Leicestershire, was not peculiarly happy in his cast of countenance or general appearance; conscious of the silly ridicule his unprepossessing tout ensemble occasionally excited, he made the following good-humoured, quaint remark:—­