No administrative reform will be able to bring even the official mind of these days into the grave inch-an-hour conscientiousness with which a confidential correspondent of a century ago related the growth of apples, the manufacture of jams, the appearance of flirtations, and other such-like things.  All the ordinary incidents of an easy life were made the most of; a party was epistolary capital, a race a mine of wealth.  So deeply sentimental was this intercourse that it was much argued whether the affections were created for the sake of ink, or ink for the sake of the affections.  Thus it continued for many years, and the fruits thereof are written in the volumes of family papers, which daily appear, are prized as “materials for the historian,” and consigned, as the case may be, to posterity or oblivion.  All this has now passed away.  Mr. Rowland Hill is entitled to the credit, not only of introducing stamps, but also of destroying letters.

THE TRAGEDY
[Sidenote:  Ingoldsby]

  Quaeque ipse miserrima vidi.—­Virgil

  Catherine of Cleves was a Lady of rank,
  She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the bank;
    She had jewels and rings, And a thousand smart things;
    Was lovely and young, With a rather sharp tongue,
  And she wedded a Noble of high degree
  With the star of the order of St. Esprit;
    But the Duke de Guise Was, by many degrees,
  Her senior, and not very easy to please;
  He’d a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,
  And a frown on his brow,—­and he look’d like a Guy,—­
    So she took to intriguing With Monsieur St. Megrin,
  A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,
  But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth;
    He would sing, fence, and dance
    With the best man in France,
  And took his rappee with genteel nonchalance;
  He smiled, and he flattered, and flirted with ease,
  And was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise. 
  Now Monsieur St. Megrin was curious to know
  If the lady approved of his passion or no;
    So without more ado, He put on his surtout,
  And went to a man with a beard like a Jew,
    One Signor Ruggieri, A cunning man near, he
  Could conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides,
  Perform tricks on the cards, and Heaven knows what besides,
  Bring back a stray’d cow, silver ladle, or spoon,
  And was thought to be thick with the Man in the Moon. 
    The Sage took his stand With his wand in his hand,
    Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command,
  Saying solemnly—­“Presto!—­Hey, quick!—­Cock-a-lorum!”
  When the Duchess immediately popp’d up before ’em.