and Peeples ready to tear each other to peeces for um—­We want some change——­In the Naborhood of Manshister thirty thousn Wafers are in a state of Risibility which is no laughin matter, havin struck for more Wags tho’ they get therty shillins a Weak and are always in Labor!—­this abolition of feelin shold be checkt, for if it is to go on it will most likly continew——­As you observe, the Rag for Chang is grate—­as they say The Scullmasters Abroad and the Scull all in confushon—­Old Head devices done away with and Hairy Cassles supplyin the place—­Aspics on the Continence seem very embracing—­tho the Trials in France is over the People are in Truble—­I hope the Rising in the Low Kantrys is over—­The Poles seem to be makin head again the Rushons in great Armd Bodis—­bent on Deth or imprisonment to get Liberty—­In short all Eurups in Harms; but nothins so Barberus as Civil comoshins Hopin all is over with You, and restin asshurd Stuck Puggys is not likely to rise again, I conclude remaining Your sincer Frend and well wisher A HUMPHRIES.

    [1] From the Literary Gazette.  See Notice of the Comic
        Annual—­Mirror, No. 467.

* * * * *

SOME PASSAGES FROM THE DIARY OF THE LATE MR. ST. JOHN LONG.

  “Aye—­there’s the rub.”—­HAMLET.

“’Tis all one!” said I, laying down the newspaper on the breakfast table, after reading an erroneous representation of myself and the Marquess of Sligo:—­“I am resolved to remove this stain from my character, and, if hard-rubbing can do it, I may hope to succeed.”  I had scarcely pronounced these words, when my servant entered the room to inform me that a person had arrived in breathless haste, imploring my assistance for a gentleman in a dying condition.  Heedful, as I ever am to attend to the sufferings of others—­a pursuit in which I have found ample fee-licity—­I drew on my boots and followed the applicant to the house of the suffering gentleman.  This was situated in a picturesque part of the metropolis, and, on knocking, the door was opened to me by a man who might be six and forty years of age—­there, or thereabout.  Guessing the purport of my visit, he said nothing, but led me up to his master’s room, when a spectacle of the most appalling character met my eyes.  A gentleman in the prime of life, lay extended on a bed—­his hair dishevelled, his dress disordered, and his complexion a midway hue between the tints of chalk and Cheshire cheese.  His tongue hung out of his mouth, loaded with evidence of internal strife.  I naturally believed that the present was a confirmed case of phthisis pulmonalis, and I accordingly had recourse to my well known, and, with-few-exceptions-always-successful remedy of inhaling.  In this instance, however, it did not answer my expectations.  Instead of benefitting the trachea, it produced a sympathetic affection of the stomach and diaphragm,