The cold perspiration streamed from us.  Was there ever anything so awful!  Here was an unhappy subject threatening to call and see us at night, and then screw us down and make us comfortable.

“Will you come?” exclaimed the dead again.

“Never!” we vociferated with fearful energy.

“Then let it alone; I didn’t think you’d have cut me now; but wait till I show you my face.”

Horror of horrors!—­the pall moved—­a long white face peered from it.  We gasped for breath, and only felt new life when we recognised our uncle Job Bucket, as the author of the conversation, and one of the bearers of the coffin!  He had turned mute!—­but that was a failure—­no one ever died in his parish after his adopting that profession!

* * * * *

He has been seen once since in the backwoods of America.  His fate seemed still to follow him, and his good temper appeared immortal—­his situation was more peculiar than pleasant.  He was seated on a log, three hundred miles from any civilised habitation, smiling blandly at a broken axe (his only one), the half of which was tightly grasped in his right hand, pointing to the truant iron in the trunk of a huge tree, the first of a thriving forest of fifty acres he purposed felling; and, thus occupied, a solitary traveller passed our uncle Job Bucket, serene as the melting sunshine, and thoughtless as the wild insect that sported round the owner “of the lightest of light hearts.”—­PEACE BE WITH HIM.  FUSBOS.

* * * * *

IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.

A gentleman of the name of Stuckey has discovered a new filtering process, by which “a stream from a most impure source may be rendered perfectly translucent and fit for all purposes.”  In the name of our rights and liberties! in the name of Judy and our country! we call upon the proper authorities to have this invaluable apparatus erected in the lobby of the House of Commons, and so, by compelling every member to submit to the operation of filtration, cleanse the house from its present accumulation of corruption, though we defy Stuckey himself to give it brightness.

* * * * *

A THING UNFIT TO A(P)PEAR.

  New honours heaped on roue Segrave’s name! 
  A cuckold’s horn is then the trump of fame.

* * * * *

FINE ARTS.

EXTERNAL EXHIBITIONS.