“The Great World,” in the language of satire, is the “glass of fashion and the mould of form.”  Its geography and history are as perpetually changing as the modes of St. James’s, or the features of one of its toasted beauties; and what is written of it to-day may be dry, and its time be out of joint, before it has escaped the murky precincts of the printing-house.  It is subtlety itself, and we know not “whence it cometh, and whither it goeth.”  Its philosophy is concentric, for this Great World consists of thousands of little worlds, usque ad infinitum, and we do well if we become not giddy with looking on the wheels of its vicissitudes.

We know not whom we have to thank for the pamphlet of sixty pages—­entitled “A Geographical and Historical Account of the Great World”—­now before us.  It bears the imprint of “Ridgway, Piccadilly,” so that it is published at the gate of the very region it describes—­like the accounts of Pere la Chaise, sold at its concierge.  Annexed is a Map of the Great World—­but the author has not “attempted to lay down the longitude; the only measurements hitherto made being confined to the west of the meridian of St. James’s Strait.”  Then the author tells us of the atomic hypothesis of the formation of the Great World.  “These rules, for the performance of what appears to be an atomic quadrille, are furnished by Sir H. Davy, elected by the Great World, master of the ceremonies for the preservation of order, and prescribing rules for the regulation of the Universe.”  “The surface of the Great World, or rather its crust, has been ascertained to be exceedingly shallow.”

The inhabitants of the Great World, in its diurnal rotation, receive no light from the sun till a few hours before the time of its setting with us, when it also sets with them, so that they are inconvenienced for a short time only, by its light.  In its annual orbit, it has but one season, which, though called Spring, is subject to the most sudden alternations of heat and cold.  The females have a singular method of protecting themselves from the baneful effects of these violent changes, which is worthy of notice:—­they wrap themselves up, during the short time the sun shines, in pelisses, shawls, and cloaks, their heads being protected by hats, whose umbrageous brims so far exceed in dimensions the little umbrellas raised above them, that a stranger is at a loss to conjecture the use of the latter.  Shortly after the sun has set, these habiliments are all thrown off, dresses of gossamer are substituted in their place, and the fair wearers rush out into the open air, to enjoy the cool night breezes.