TWO OF A TRADE.

"With such a dear companion at my side."—-Wordsworth.

Oh! marvellous Boy, what marvel whenI met thy Dog and thee,I marvell'd if to dogs or menYou traced your ancestry!If changed from what you once were known,As sorrow turns to joy,The Boy more like the Dog had grown,The Dog more like the Boy.It would a prophet's eyesight baulk,To see through time's dark fog,If on four legs the Boy will walk,Or if on two the Dog.Oh pair! what were ye bothat first?The one a feeble pup;A babe the other, fondly nursed—Howhaveye been brought up?Oh, Boy! and wert thou once a child,A cherub small and soft,On whom two human beings smiled,And pray'd for, oft and oft?A creature, rosy, plump and fair,Half meekness and half joy;A wingless angel with light hair!—Oh! wert thou, Butcher-boy?A thing more gentle, laughing, light,More blythe, more full of play,Than e'erhewas—that luckless wight!—The lamb you stuck to-day?And thou, O Dog, with deep-set eyes,Wert thou, like Love, once blind;With helpless limbs, of pigmy size,And voice that scarcely whined?How grew your legs so like tohis,Your growl so like his tone?And when did he first see your phizReflected in his own?Bravely have both your likeness worn;Alike, without, within;Brethren ye are, and each was born,Like Happiness, "a twin!"Yet can it be, oh! Butcher-boy,Thou com'st of Adam's race?Then Adam's gold has much alloy!—Was thishisform and face?Art thou descended from the pairFrom whom the Cæsars came?Wore Alexander such an air?Look'd Cheops much the same?And thou, oh! Butcher's cur, is't trueThatthyfirst parents e'erFrom Eden's garden lapp'd the dew,And breathed in rapture there?Yes! those from whom you spring, no doubt,Who lived like dogs, and died,Must once have follow'd Eve about,And walk'd by Adam's side.L. B.

Oh! marvellous Boy, what marvel whenI met thy Dog and thee,I marvell'd if to dogs or menYou traced your ancestry!

Oh! marvellous Boy, what marvel when

I met thy Dog and thee,

I marvell'd if to dogs or men

You traced your ancestry!

If changed from what you once were known,As sorrow turns to joy,The Boy more like the Dog had grown,The Dog more like the Boy.

If changed from what you once were known,

As sorrow turns to joy,

The Boy more like the Dog had grown,

The Dog more like the Boy.

It would a prophet's eyesight baulk,To see through time's dark fog,If on four legs the Boy will walk,Or if on two the Dog.

It would a prophet's eyesight baulk,

To see through time's dark fog,

If on four legs the Boy will walk,

Or if on two the Dog.

Oh pair! what were ye bothat first?The one a feeble pup;A babe the other, fondly nursed—Howhaveye been brought up?

Oh pair! what were ye bothat first?

The one a feeble pup;

A babe the other, fondly nursed—

Howhaveye been brought up?

Oh, Boy! and wert thou once a child,A cherub small and soft,On whom two human beings smiled,And pray'd for, oft and oft?

Oh, Boy! and wert thou once a child,

A cherub small and soft,

On whom two human beings smiled,

And pray'd for, oft and oft?

A creature, rosy, plump and fair,Half meekness and half joy;A wingless angel with light hair!—Oh! wert thou, Butcher-boy?

A creature, rosy, plump and fair,

Half meekness and half joy;

A wingless angel with light hair!—

Oh! wert thou, Butcher-boy?

A thing more gentle, laughing, light,More blythe, more full of play,Than e'erhewas—that luckless wight!—The lamb you stuck to-day?

A thing more gentle, laughing, light,

More blythe, more full of play,

Than e'erhewas—that luckless wight!—

The lamb you stuck to-day?

And thou, O Dog, with deep-set eyes,Wert thou, like Love, once blind;With helpless limbs, of pigmy size,And voice that scarcely whined?

And thou, O Dog, with deep-set eyes,

Wert thou, like Love, once blind;

With helpless limbs, of pigmy size,

And voice that scarcely whined?

How grew your legs so like tohis,Your growl so like his tone?And when did he first see your phizReflected in his own?

How grew your legs so like tohis,

Your growl so like his tone?

And when did he first see your phiz

Reflected in his own?

Bravely have both your likeness worn;Alike, without, within;Brethren ye are, and each was born,Like Happiness, "a twin!"

Bravely have both your likeness worn;

Alike, without, within;

Brethren ye are, and each was born,

Like Happiness, "a twin!"

Yet can it be, oh! Butcher-boy,Thou com'st of Adam's race?Then Adam's gold has much alloy!—Was thishisform and face?

Yet can it be, oh! Butcher-boy,

Thou com'st of Adam's race?

Then Adam's gold has much alloy!—

Was thishisform and face?

Art thou descended from the pairFrom whom the Cæsars came?Wore Alexander such an air?Look'd Cheops much the same?

Art thou descended from the pair

From whom the Cæsars came?

Wore Alexander such an air?

Look'd Cheops much the same?

And thou, oh! Butcher's cur, is't trueThatthyfirst parents e'erFrom Eden's garden lapp'd the dew,And breathed in rapture there?

And thou, oh! Butcher's cur, is't true

Thatthyfirst parents e'er

From Eden's garden lapp'd the dew,

And breathed in rapture there?

Yes! those from whom you spring, no doubt,Who lived like dogs, and died,Must once have follow'd Eve about,And walk'd by Adam's side.

Yes! those from whom you spring, no doubt,

Who lived like dogs, and died,

Must once have follow'd Eve about,

And walk'd by Adam's side.

L. B.

The noble art of boxing made a hit in its day; but it is now numbered amongst the dead or dying, and the art of striking reigns in its stead. Little has been heard of throughout the month but the "strikes" that have taken place at the various public works, among the masons. "Masonic brethren" they have proved themselves, by the secrecy of their communications, and the sympathetic character of their movements. They struck first at the Houses of Parliament, then at Nelson's Monument, then at Woolwich. Not being in want of bread, they refused us a stone. Punctual to a moment, as the Horse Guards' clock struck, they did. Our Omnibus stopped, like the workmen, at Charing-cross. "So the masons at Nelson's Monument are going to strike," said we. "Glad to hear it," rejoined a punning acquaintance, "there ought to be something striking about a monument tohim!"

The name of Nelson set all our companions talking; but an "old sailor" (notthe) was the first to give his discourse a reportable shape, by relating a little historical fact that has escaped history—unimportant, perhaps, but not uninteresting.

THE TWO NAVAL HEROES.

Everybody knows Tower Hill, but it is not every one we meet with in an Omnibus, who can recollect it as it was fifty years ago, when Steel kept his shop there, and first published the Navy List. However, we cannot stop to speak of him, or his book, nor of the itinerants who were wont to vend their various wares under the trees which shaded the houses in Postern-row; nor of the pump, which then, as now, was declared to be a very good pump; nor of the ditch, into which, in that day, many a passenger was tumbled after being robbed and beaten by the thieves and disorderlies—land privateers as they were called, who cruised in the neighbourhood after dark. We do not intend to relate any thing of these, nor of the sundry stout, ill-favoured, savage-looking vagabonds in fearnought coats, who were ever to be found lolling over the row of posts which fenced the eastern side of the hill—the commissioned press-gang, who used to amuse themselves by scrutinizing the passers-by, and now and then by breaking the head of some unfortunate blue-jacket who had incautiously strolled too near their precincts to avoid capture or a fight.

We have taken you out of the city, reader, into a district not inhabited by the most honest or well conducted; but we must still bring you through East Smithfield into Wapping, to a spot a little west of the entrance of the London Docks; and hereabouts one Richardson kept a slop-shop.

Early one morning a cheerful-looking hale old man came out of Steel's navigation warehouse, leading by the hand a slender stripling of a lad who carried a chart under his arm, and seemed to regard his companion with the respect due to a patron. They took their way along the same track precisely by which we have conducted you, and parted opposite Richardson's slop-shop. As the man (it was Porteous, the king's pilot) shook the lad by the hand, he ejaculated loud enough to be heard half down the street—"Mind, high water at a quarter past twelve; I won't wait a minute; be there by twelve!"

Old Richardson was at this moment busied about his accounts, and too intent on his occupation to perceive that anybody had approached his counter, until the lad who had entered the shop drew his attention. He wanted some sea-clothing, and tendered a list of check shirts, duck trousers, &c. The articles were exhibited, examined, and approved; they were to be packed up and sent to the Dundee Arms by noon. The honest chapman recognized the signature at the foot of the order, and the youth took his departure.

There was something in the lad's manners and appearance that would have induced an observation upon the choice he had made of a profession so full of danger and difficulty; and the slopseller was once or twice about to address hisyoung customer on the subject, who however gave him no opportunity of entering upon it.

The lad gone, the shopkeeper resumed his employment at his books, and, as he turned over leaf after leaf, accompanied the process with certain verbal remarks which a pen he held between his lips rendered somewhat indistinct; at length, laying down the implement and adjusting his spectacles, he pondered over the contents of the page, and after a pause exclaimed—"Ah! I do remember, about the same time in the morning too. Let me see—watch-coat—fearnought trousers—pair of boots—sword-belt—he was rather a different looking chap to the lad that came just now; a hard-faced, smart-built, bold dog he was—fine eye; snapped at me as I showed him the things—sent 'em to Water-lane, but never got the money! Early customers differ otherwise than in looks; this pays, that don't—but it can't be helped; if they are not all—let's see, what's the lads name," (and here he re-examined the order that had just been left with him) "ay—Horatio Nelsons, they are not allPaul Joneses"—And these two widely distinguished heroes, reader, were the customers between whom old Richardson drew a comparison[16].

Nelson, and the modern navy, and Napier, and ship-building, and discipline, and improvement, were the changes rung for some time, until at last somebody adverted to a peculiarity of the Jack Tar which may be discussed under the title of

TAR AND FEATHERS.

The sailor must have his joke in defiance of danger and death. When Commodore Anson took Panama in 1742, his men clothed themselves over their jackets and trousers in all the gay apparel they could collect. They did the same at Capua under Nelson; and the hero, elevated on a cask in the grand square, and surrounded by motley groups of masquerading tars, drank rich wine out of a golden goblet to the toast of "Better times to us." In 1805, the brave Yeo, then a lieutenant of the Loire frigate, with a mere handful of men, stormed the heavy fort of El Muros, near Finisterre, and carried it at noon-day. Having destroyed the fortification and sent off the stores, the seamen arrayed themselves in the immense Spanish grenadiers' bear skin caps and accoutrements, and all black and dirty with their labour, rowed off in this state to the ship, to the great amusement of Captain Maitland and the hearty approval of their shipmates. Many other anecdotes of a similar kind might be related; and now it appears, by recent accounts from China, that Jack is still pursuing his old game; for it is related that at the destruction of several war-junks in the neighbourhood of Canton, the English seamen arrayed themselves in the spoils of the enemy, and figured away in mandarin caps and tunics, and the curly-toed shoes of the Chinamen; nor was the essential tail wanted; for many of the bodies were divested of this ornament, which Jack being in a "cue" for humour, suspended at his own back, occasionally raising it in a coil, and offering to take a messmate in tow by it.

We did not break up our little Naval Board without mentioning impressment, and a thing called theCAT; the word was no sooner out, than it operated like the morning-gun in "The Critic," and off went the following:—

AN ACATALECTIC MONODY!

AcatI sing, of famous memory,Thoughcatachrestical my song may be;In a small gardencatacomb she lies,Andcataclysms fill her comrades' eyes;Borne on the air, thecatacoustic songSwells with her virtues'catalogue along;Nocataplasm could lengthen out her years,Though mourning friends shedcataracts of tearsOnce loud and strong hercatechist-like voiceIt dwindled to acatcall's squeaking noise;Mostcategorical her virtues shone,Bycatenation join'd each one to one;—But a vilecatchpoll dog, with cruel bite,Likecatling's cut, her strength disabled quite;Hercaterwauling pierced the heavy air,Ascataphracts their arms through legions bear;'Tis vain! ascaterpillars drag awayTheir lengths, likecattle after busy day,She ling'ring died, nor left in kitkattheEmbodyment of thiscatastrophe.—V. D. L.

AcatI sing, of famous memory,

Thoughcatachrestical my song may be;

In a small gardencatacomb she lies,

Andcataclysms fill her comrades' eyes;

Borne on the air, thecatacoustic song

Swells with her virtues'catalogue along;

Nocataplasm could lengthen out her years,

Though mourning friends shedcataracts of tears

Once loud and strong hercatechist-like voice

It dwindled to acatcall's squeaking noise;

Mostcategorical her virtues shone,

Bycatenation join'd each one to one;—

But a vilecatchpoll dog, with cruel bite,

Likecatling's cut, her strength disabled quite;

Hercaterwauling pierced the heavy air,

Ascataphracts their arms through legions bear;

'Tis vain! ascaterpillars drag away

Their lengths, likecattle after busy day,

She ling'ring died, nor left in kitkatthe

Embodyment of thiscatastrophe.—V. D. L.

"A play on words," said Mr. Cavil, (who happened to be our guest on this occasion), "a play on words, sir, is a pretty thing in its way; and I'm perfectly well aware that the public expect you to be jocular (as if there were nothing cheerful in seriousness). I know, too, that it's quite impossible to please everybody. But still, sir—still I think a little gravity now and then, eh?—a little gravity. I don't conceive that you give your attention sufficiently to science. Something scientific now—"

Mr. Cavil was not allowed to conclude; we had anticipated his want; we had already turned our thoughts that way, and could fortunately plume ourselves upon the presence of one of theillustrissimiof science, who forthwith illumined our humble vehicle by a transcendent and exclusive report of the

THIRD MEETING OF THE BRIGHT-ISH ASSOCIATION FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF EVERYTHING.

Section A.—Mathematical and Physical Science.

President—Prof. Cycloyd.Vice-Presidents—Dr. Spectrum & Major Fork.

"On an Experiment of Interference." By Inspector Jones.

The author stated, that one night he had observed a gentleman employed in experimenting upon the tintinnabular powers of bells, as produced by voltaic action communicated through copper wires; the end of the wire being conducted into the open air, and the point defended by a brass knob. Feeling interested in the prosecution of this experiment, the author immediately proceeded to the spot to make inquiries into its success; but when within two paces of the experimentalist, he had suddenly received so severe a shock that he was stunned for the moment. When he recovered from its effects, the gentleman was gone. This he particularly regretted, as he much wished to have discovered the power which had produced the shock that prostrated him; but as he had observed another gentleman a short distance behind him, he supposes that he, being an assistant of the experimentalist, was engaged in generating the galvanic fluid, which, passing from him to the one in connexion with the brass knob, (from thence to be communicated to the bell through the wire,) had produced the shock described—the author's body intercepting its flow, and thus being in a state of interference.

"A Comparison between the Results given by Rain-gauges and known Facts with regard to Lachrymatose precipitations."

By Dr. Daw.

The object of this paper was, to point out the connexion which exists between the quantities of rain received on horizontal surfaces, atdifferent heightsabove the ground, and the quantity of lachrymal vapour condensed into tears, also at different heights; and showing that, in both cases, the less the elevation the greater were the quantities. Thus, a rain-gauge, four feet from the ground, will intercept less than one on the ground; and a child offourfeet high will produce less than onetwofeet high.

"On the Expression of Unknown Quantities." By Prof. Muddelwitz.

A method of expressing unknown quantities by known formulæ has long been a desideratum in mathematical science. This process the author stated he had discovered; for that the fractions of coefficient indices, when used to express the powers of differential equations, are always capable of being solved into pure algebraic roots. Thus, if in an infinitesimal series, in which p, o, o2—t—t2are unknown given quantities, a, a2, and e, known, and the value to be limited, the equation stands as follows:—

1. a x — a2× p o t2= t, o, e.

2. a x =t o e + a — p o t2

——————————3. x = 2 √(a - p o t2+ a2— t o e)

Thus the generalization of the equation of x, to the nthdegree, gives its fraction in the form of an algebraic root.

[To some readers the above demonstrations may seem rather obscure; but as the late Dr. Dundertop, in his treatise on thePerspicuous, clearly explains—"Ephpnxmqzomubh grudcnkrl, hqmpt on kronswt."]

We were all thrown into a state of such intense dumbness, such complete torpor, by the profundity of these scientific researches, that everybody tacitly admitted the appropriateness of the next subject; it was a case of still-life which met our startled eye the other evening, in the form of a pair of

RUM CORKS IN STOUT BOTTLES.

On our table stood, not one, but two "black bottles," two bottles that had held "Cork stout"—two we saw without seeing double. The corks had already been drawn, but upon them were two faces distinctly visible, which we resolved to draw likewise; and as the pencil wound itself about, we seemed to hear the following dialogue, in a sort of screw-like tone:—

"Arrah, Paddy now, and where are you from?"

"Sure I'm from Cork."

"Cork is it? fait den it's from Cork I am meself."

"Not such terrifying images, sir," said a nervous visitor, who trembled like Keeley in the old drama of theBottle Imp, "not such terrifying images as that family of phantoms, that assemblage of the blues, which you conjured up in your last number. You might well call them "frights." I'm sure I've felt all overlike the Derbyshire turnpike-man ever since; but I'm not at all afraid of those two bottle conjurors there."

The allusion to this mysterious Derbyshire pike-man produced inquiry, and we were all forthwith reminded by our agitated companion, of a midnight scene—

A HIGHWAY ADVENTURE

which was lately recorded in the public papers. It appears that when Van Amburgh travels, the large elephant goes on foot in the night, attended by four East Indians, men of negro complexions, in white dresses,—three of them riding on the elephant's back, and one on his tusks. One night as they were passing over Worksop forest, the party arrived at a toll-bar that was closed. The call "Gate" was raised, and out came the toll-keeper in his nightcap. Now it is suspected that this unfortunate individual had been long anticipating the coming of a gentleman in black, whose name is never mentioned to ears polite; for observing the monstrous and unlooked-for spectacle that then presented itself to his drowsy eyes, he, instead of opening the gate, was so terrified, that he ran back into the house, exclaiming in frantic tones, "He's come at last!"

"Frightened at an elephant," cried Mr. Cavil, with a profusion of pishes! "At an elephant merely! I wonder if he ever saw a young lady—young ladies such as I have seen! I was never afraid of a woman while she wore her hair turned up, powdered, pomatumed, and frizzed like my mother's and grandmother's; but only imagine the terror of a sensitive mortal on encountering a specimen of the fashions of the present day; on meeting a sample of the feminine gender, who, not satisfied with milliner's 'whiskers,' must exhibit to the affrighted gazer a face

'BEARDED LIKE THE PARD.'

Frightened at an elephant! Bless his five wits!—if he were only to come to London!"

BY SAM SLY.

It is customary with the romancists and novelists of the day to track their heroes and heroines to some mysterious origin, for which purpose they either draw them from the foot of the gallows, or the precincts of the palace, and the jail returns are ransacked, and the old Court Guides dissected, for suitable titles and localities. Thus, whilst one will unkennel his favourites from workhouses, and obscure holes and corners, another finds his pet in the queen's best bed-room, or sleeping in state in a golden cradle. It is lucky for us we are not obliged to run to either extreme. Sarah Toddles' life lies in a nutshell. And here again we cannot help expressing our satisfaction, that we should be more fortunate than those who have to beat about the hedge, and make long speeches, and fill volumes in hazarding and conjecturing respecting nurses and birth-places. There is nothing at all remarkable about the dawning of Sarah; it was the most simple, natural, straight-forward, and legitimate birth imaginable: there was neither ringing of bells, nor flourishing of trumpets. Mrs. James was the nurse, Mrs. Sarah Gunn the mother, and Mr. Timothy Gunn the father. He was a gingerbread-baker, and lived at Bow—Mile-end Bow—and kept a shop not far from the bridge, and baked "Banburys" as well as "parliament" for the fair. Over the bow-window of this shop, and a little to the left, Sarah first saw daylight, and heard Bow bells—not at that interesting moment, because we have already said the elements were quiet. Sarah was an only child, the gun never went off but once—at least Sarah was the only "living shot."

Sarah—our Sally—was born on the same day as the Duke of Wellington, but she could not help that. It seemed a little curious, and somewhat presumptuous; and her mother, had she anticipated such a result, would no doubt have avoided giving any offence, by forwarding or retarding the business, but she had no friend at court. And, after all, it is doubtful which is most honoured by the fact, his Grace or Sarah Toddles.

But such is the course of things. Mrs. Gunn was soon off the stocks; she was up and stirring; and Sarah, with unheard of rapidity, got out of the nurse's arms, and from pap to pudding, and pudding to pork; and soon found out the use of her eyes and feet, and "toddled" into the shop, and tip-toed to the top of the counter, and fingered the "Banburys," and licked the "parliament," and dabbled in the treacle, and painted her face with it, and was shaken and smacked, and all that sort of thing. She became at last "quite a girl," and would run over the bridge, and round the church-yard, and up "Mile-end," and down Old Ford, and through Bow fields, and Stepney church-yard, and all about, till Mrs. Gunn was "frightened out of her wits," and determined to send her to school. Now Bow church was not then as it is at present. In the olden times, or when Sarah was young, there was a market held close in front of it, and over this market was a school, and a Mr. Brown was the master; and here Sarah was first led into the mystery of letters, and got through "Vyse's New London Spelling Book," and that's all (for her progress, like her genius and her stature, was small); so after spoiling many copy-books and green bags, and wearing out many pattens in trotting from the shop to the school, she was ultimately relieved from her studies and her troubles by being taken away. This was good news for Sarah, "for now she should do as she liked, and have such bits of fun at Bow fair, without being bothered to get her lessons in the morning before she went, when half the day was gone; and wouldn't she though have some rare games in Stepney church-yard, and look at the tombstones and the fish in the ring! and wouldn't she often go to the World's-end tea-gardens, and to Fairlop fair, and Epping forest to get blackberries! She just would then." And she just did then; and this was the sunny spot of her life.

Nowher sun may be said to have gradually declined; she was no longer a free agent. She was told to "thinkand mind what she was about," and was kept at home, and enlisted in domestic services (for her parents had no other housemaid), and also assisted in baking and minding the shop. Thus days rolled on; and Sarah at last became a woman—not a very tall one it is true, but still a woman—little and good, "short and sweet."

Sarah was thrice married. Her first husband was a Mr. Lightfoot, her second a Mr. Heavisides, and her third, and last, Mr. Toddles—Thomas Toddles. With the first two we have nothing to do, they were dead and buried before we were thought of, and we never make a point of enlarging about parties where we are not asked to the funeral, but we may merely remark for the benefit of the curious, that Sarah Toddles chosethemfor no particular virtue or accomplishment, but merely for their size; they all stoodfour feet threein their shoes, all were timid men, and all died childless. There was nothingat all wonderful about either of these courtships or weddings, all was "fair and above-board;" no rope ladders, no moonlight madness, no Gretna Green trips, no bribings, no hole-and-corner works, no skulking behind kitchen doors or tombstones, or winkings or blinkings in church, no lies, no sighs, no dyings for love and that trumpery, nothing of the sort. Mr. Gunn consented, Mrs. Gunn consented, Sarah consented, and they all consented; could anything be fairer? and what's the use of writing a volume upon it, as many of our contemporaries might? But, perhaps, we may be allowed to say a word or two on Mrs. Toddles' last engagement, since at his death we were asked to the funeral. As a baker, and doing a great deal of business for the fairs, Mr. Gunn required assistance, and he found a faithful and honest servant in Thomas Toddles. Mrs. Heavisides—our Sally—would often be found in the bakehouse helping her father and Thomas in "setting sponge," as it is termed, and in moulding and shaping buns and Banburys. Could anything be more natural than that words and looks should be exchanged on these occasions between her and Thomas, bordering upon the weather and the heat of the oven, and that this warmth should produce congenial thoughts and sentiments? It did so; for Thomas, though naturally timid, had all the arts or nature of an experienced lover. He would run from Buns to Banburys, and from Banburys to Bachelors, and from Bachelors to Bow Bells, and from Bow Bells to Bow Church, and from the Church to the Altar; he would then not forget to talk about rings, "and thought he knew of one just about her size"—here the oven would burn—"and would she allow him to try one." He would then steal a little nearer, and adopt a few innocent liberties, such as flirting a little flour in her face with his thumb and finger, then wipe it off afterwards with the corner of his apron, and, as a climax, "kiss the place to make it well," my Toddles!

It is not to be wondered at, that these things were a "decided hit," as the managers have it, and that they should have their full effect, by causing Bow Bells very soon to ring to the honour and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Toddles. But all that lives must fade, and Mrs. Toddles' troubles now came thick upon her. First, her mother died, soon after, her father, who bequeathed all his "Banburys," goods, and chattels to her and her husband; and within a very few months Thomas died also. He was unusually busy one night in preparing for Bow fair, where he kept a stall, and over-exerting himself, caught a cold, was taken to bed, slept sweetly, but over-slept himself, and saw Sarah Toddles no more.

Soon after, Mrs. T. wound up the business, sold off her stock and interest, and purchased a small annuity. In order to fill up her time, and in some measure to obliterate the past, she volunteered her services in one or two tract and Dorcas societies, where she assists in the making up of those very small articles which she was once in her longings led to suppose might fill her own baskets. A great deal of absurdity has gone forth at her expense amongst cads and omnibus drivers, who would not wait even five or ten minutes for her, when at the furthest she was never more than a quarter of an hour behind time, and how few know the cause of all this! Some have attributed it to an over-solicitude in her toilet, some to this thing and some to that, some to the putting on of those little black stockings, and some to the tying of the velvet shoes; when, if the truth must be known, it is—Mrs. Sarah Toddles has corns.

Some little reminiscence of Mr. Toddles may be required. In height he was about four feet three. His clothes were much too large for him, coming over his knuckles, and over his shoes, with a skirt nearly touching the ground. Moreover he had a monstrous hat, swelling at the crown, very much boated before and behind, a large mouth, and large eyes. It was curious to see this little couple trotting up Mile-end road towards Whitechapel on a Saturday night, he first, and she after, for a cheap market—he carrying a basket and she a bag, which they would fill either from the shops or from the stalls by the roadside; but before returning, take care to call in at the Blind Beggar for a drop of "summat short," "but strictly medicinally."

That very shawl at the back of Mrs. Toddles, and the large parasol, or small umbrella, were presents from Mr. T. one Bow-fair day; she keeps them and wears them in respect to his memory, and will continue to do so through all the changes of fashion. Those stockings were knitted by Miss Toddles, and those velvet shoes made by Timothy Toddles, her dear husband's brother and sister; in short, she is enveloped and surrounded with gifts from top to toe. The arm-chair was a relic of her mother's, the footstool was her father's, the bottle Lightfoot's, and the glass Heavisides', and the table Toddles', her last dear Toddles; the carpet was her cousin's, and the urn her uncle's.

But time, like Sarah, is toddling on; let us hope that she may meet with more civility, and that her end may be peaceful. If we are invited to the funeral, we shall look after her epitaph.

⁂We beg to state, that though assured of the great respectability of our correspondent, we do not personalty vouch for the authenticity of this Memoir.-Ed.

George Cruikshank.Breaking into the Strong room in the "Jewel Tower" and Removal of the Regalia, on the night of the Fire, Octr. 30. 1841London Tilt & Bogue 86 Fleet Street.

George Cruikshank.

Breaking into the Strong room in the "Jewel Tower" and Removal of the Regalia, on the night of the Fire, Octr. 30. 1841

London Tilt & Bogue 86 Fleet Street.

THE SCENE IN THE JEWEL TOWER—THE ARMOURY—THE BOWYER TOWER—LADY JANE GREY'S APARTMENT—THE TROPHIES.

The black portion of the plan shows the part which is burnt.A Bowyer Tower. B Brick Tower. C Small Armoury.D Map Office. E White Tower. F Horse Armoury.G Powder Magazine. H Ordnance Office. I Bloody Tower.K Governor's Lodgings. L St. Peter's Church. M Jewel Tower.

The black portion of the plan shows the part which is burnt.

A Bowyer Tower. B Brick Tower. C Small Armoury.D Map Office. E White Tower. F Horse Armoury.G Powder Magazine. H Ordnance Office. I Bloody Tower.K Governor's Lodgings. L St. Peter's Church. M Jewel Tower.

The Queen's loving subjects are divided into two parties—those who have, and those who have not, visited the Tower. The former have their recollections of the visit—the latter have their regrets for its postponement. And let this be a lesson to all procrastinative sight-seers, to see things while they are to be seen; for the Great—or, as it was somewhat oddly designated—the Small Armoury, is no longer among the visibles or the visitables.

Association first conducts us to theJewel House, the scene of Col. Blood's and of Mr. Swifte's doings. It is curious, that after 170 years the burglary (we were near saying the treason) should be repeated; and that Blood, the crown-stealer, should have been succeeded by Swifte, the crown-keeper. The soldier was favoured by King Charles, the civilian by Queen Victoria—the merry Master pardoned, the august Mistress approved. The stealer was rewarded with a pension, the keeper's recompense is—to come.

Having the benefit of Mr. Swifte's acquaintance, we were indulged with a view of the Jewel-room. It is really a curious contrast! Light, security, and splendour, changed into darkness, desolation, and vacancy—the regal treasury become an empty sepulchre! The tokens and the instruments of the violence used—broken railings, hatchets, and crow-bars—scattered about, as if "the gallant Colonel" had but just absconded! It was a comfort to think that the imperial crown, instead of being battered to bits in his bag, was safe and whole in the Governor's cellar.

We have endeavoured, in our plate, to give light and life to the Jewel-room, now so desolate. Not the light of six Argands, flashing down on diadem and sceptre, and—brightest of all—on the crown of our liege lady's yet brighter brow, irradiating the matchless sapphire, blue as an Italian sky—the mound of diamonds, numerous as its stars—and the priceless ruby of Edward and of Henry, multiplying their thousand prisms:—but,alas! the blink of one or two ten-to-the-pound tallows—sheepish-looking members of the "Kitchiner" tribe—glimmering on them, ghastly as dead men's eyes out of a plundered coffin.

And for thelifeof the scene? There stood the keeper himself, his wife at his side, partaking the peril; and the warders, whom he had summoned to the rescue. We cannot, however, portray the stifling heat and smoke; the clamour of the soldiers outside the closed portal, which the fires of the Armoury were striving to reach; nor the roar of the still-excluded flames, the clang of the pumps, the hissing of the water-pipes, the gathering feet and voices of the multitude. These are beyond the pencil.

"The pressure from without" increased. Again the clamour rose high, and the furnace heat rose higher. But the keeper abided his time—the crow-bars were raised in a dozen hands awaiting his word. It was given! The first blow since the days of King Charles descended on the iron fence; and Queen Victoria's crown, safely deposited in its case, and sheltered therein from smoke and flame and the common gaze, was removed to the Governor's house. Orbs, diadems, and sceptres—dishes, flagons, and chalices—the services of court and of church, of altar and of banquet, were sent forth in the care of many a sturdy warder, gallantJohn Lundbeing their leader. The huge baptismal font, soon to be called into use for the Prince of Wales, was last removed. The Jewel-room was as bare as if Blood the First had left nought behind him for Blood the Second. How must the spectators have gazed on the bright procession, as from window, and roof, and turret, the Armoury blazed out upon it! And how must the Colonel's ghost have wondered to behold his own meditated prey borne through that fiery midnight!

The Jewel-room was now emptied. The agents of itsemptificationquitted the peril—glad enough were they, we'll be sworn—and all was again solitude and silence.

The Armoury, with its three burning floors, each 345 feet in length—their trophies of past, and provisions of future victory, wrapped in one flame, and flanked at either end by the Chapel and the Crown Jewel House—(Church and State in equal danger!)—deserve our description. That memorable night—so memorable, that, as the keeper's ancestor, Dean Swift, says of O'Rourke's feast, it will be remembered

"By those who were there,And those who were not,"

"By those who were there,

And those who were not,"

is described in two words,Fusion and Confusion. They tell their story.

Next in sublimity to the spectacle of the blazing pile, was the scene afterwards presented, when, as the fire lessened, and the smoke cleared off, the whole space within the walls of the enormous Armoury was opened to the straining eye—a sight of awe and wonder. Above was the "sky" of a November morn; and below, covering the immense sweep of the floor, heaps of fused metal, of dimensions scarcely to be credited, with bayonet-points bristling up everywhere, close-set and countless, like long blades of grass. Innumerable as the stand of small-arms had appeared, they now seemed, starting from the crushed mass, still more multitudinous; the space appeared larger; the scene of destruction more gigantic; and we thought of the moralizing fox walking beside the tree which had been thrown down by a tempest:—"This is truly a noble tree; I never thought it so great while standing."

BOWYER OR CLARENCE TOWER.

After a day or two there was something ridiculous blended with the terror of the spectacle. The Waterloo guns uninjured—(those guns which had played upon the guards at Waterloo with shot, and which the guards in return had played upon with water inlooof shot)—the enormous pieces of artillery; the mighty anchor; the myriad bayonet-points; the masses of metal, dull or shining; the broken columns; the smouldering rubbish; were strangely contrasted with the forms of gaily-attired ladies, courageously clambering over hot heaps, creeping through apparently unapproachable avenues, and raking among the ashes for relics—gun-flints, green, blue, or white, and picturesque bits of metal.

Outside this building, in various directions, the most terrific visible symptom of the intense burning that had made night hideous, were the streams of molten lead from surrounding roofs; the liquid metal, as it fell upon the flagstones, having splashed up and sprinkled the walls to the height of two or three feet.

ENTRANCE TO THE SMALL ARMOURY—CAMPERDOWN ANCHOR, WATERLOO GUNS, &C.

Orderhas at length succeeded to the Confusion, andorderson a large scale have followed the Fusion. The Armoury will be rebuilt and refurnished. The edifice, it is to be hoped, will be more in harmony with the antique character of the surrounding scene, and the new arms not less susceptible of beautiful arrangement for being better adapted to practical uses than the old. Thus far the nation will gain by its misfortune; nor will the loss, even in a pecuniary sense, be equal to a fourth of the first estimate. Every evil has been exaggerated—except the danger. That scarcely admitted of exaggeration.

Our fellow antiquaries, and not less (though for other reasons) our country-cousins everywhere, will join with us, not in lamenting the Loss, but in rejoicing at the Escape. The plan which heads this article, will enable them to understand it. Of the antiquities of the Tower, little or nothing has suffered. All that has stood for centuries, in fact, still stands there. That of which thememory is imperishable has not perished. The buildings which are destroyed, are—the Armoury, which was modern; the upper part of the Bowyer or Clarence Tower, which was also modern. The antique remains are figured on the preceding page. This tower was three stories high. The large square window below, next the ladder, is that of the chamber in which Clarence is supposed to have been murdered. In the apartment immediately over this the fire commenced. Above the belt, in the centre, all was modern. It will be seen by the Plan that this tower is exactly in the centre of the Small Armoury, at the back. The Brick Tower is of considerable antiquity, and the interior of this has been wofully damaged, so that the apartment in which the gentle Lady Jane Grey was confined, wears now a more forlorn and ruinous aspect than the slow hand of Time would have invested it with in additional centuries. Still, even here, what is gone is but the wood-work, the outward coating, the modern accessories or accumulations of the scene; the Destroyer has neither eaten through the old walls, nor undermined the deep and enduring foundations of any portion of the Old Fortress.

As for the Trophies that are gone, they are things which this nation, more perhaps than any other, can afford to surrender without a sigh. If "Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along her steep," neither does she need tokens of her triumphant march over the mountain-wave in days gone by. Besides, as schoolboys say of birds'-eggs taken prisoners, or apples captured in orchards, "there's plenty more where these came from." It would have been something, to be sure, to have saved from the Consumer a thing so simple as the old wheel of the "Victory;" because it was no part of the vulgar spoil of war, no commonplace implement of devastation wrested from an enemy, but a precious relic associated with the dying-hour of England's favourite hero, and a symbol, in its very form, of the eternity of his fame. It is gone; but the list of losses is not half so long as fear made it; and among the trophies yet remaining, are numbers as indestructible as the great anchor taken at Camperdown, which, the day after the fire, was seen rearing its giant bulk amidst the multitude of bristling points, and masses of fused metal.

LADY JANE GREY'S ROOM IN THE BRICK TOWER.

THE BLAZING ARMOURY—THE RAMPARTS—A CONTRAST.

The lamps of the City burn dull and dead,The wintry raindrops fall,And thick mists, borne from the River's bed,Round London's hoary Tower are spread,O'erhanging, like a pall.When, suddenly—look! a red light creepsUp from the Tower on high!One shriek of "fire!"—and lo! it sweepsThrough yon vast Armoury.Up, up it springs, on giant wings,That still expand and soar;Can you not hear, through outcries loud,The beaten drum, and the tramp of the crowd,The mighty furnace roar!Then trophy, and relic, and ancient spoil,One molten mass went down,And Ruin had stretch'd his red hand outTo seize the sacred Crown.And faces, that else were white with fear,Gleam'd in the woful light;While perils that distant seem'd, drew near,And ghastlier grew the night.Dread rumour, outstripping the winged flame,Still spoke of powder stored,Ere deep in the moat 'twas safely roll'd,Sparing the walls of that White Tower old,Rich memory's darkest hoard.And all the while the threaten'd pileRang with a mingled roar,And hurried feet in danger meet,And dread struck more and more.Yet all night there, within the boundOf that fortress black and stern,The appointed guard went stilly round,And on the customary groundThe Soldier took his turn.High overhead the lurid blazeAfar in fright was seen,Yet there, unmoved, the Sentry pacedEach time-worn tower between.Just o'er him broke the flash and smoke,Around was wild uproar;But there he trod, as there had trodHis fellow the night before.Amidst the deep terrific swellBy myriad noises made,An echo from the ramparts fell—The measured tread of the SentinelIn solitude and shade.And to and fro, from hour to hour,His deep slow step was heard,Nor could the firemen there have pass'dWithout the secret word.Thus, silent 'midst a tumult wild;Thus, lonely 'midst a throng;Thus, bent his usual watch to keep,As though the Fortress were asleep,Shadow'd in drear and dead midnight,Yet neighbour'd by that living light,The Sentry paced along!L. B.

The lamps of the City burn dull and dead,The wintry raindrops fall,And thick mists, borne from the River's bed,Round London's hoary Tower are spread,O'erhanging, like a pall.

The lamps of the City burn dull and dead,

The wintry raindrops fall,

And thick mists, borne from the River's bed,

Round London's hoary Tower are spread,

O'erhanging, like a pall.

When, suddenly—look! a red light creepsUp from the Tower on high!One shriek of "fire!"—and lo! it sweepsThrough yon vast Armoury.

When, suddenly—look! a red light creeps

Up from the Tower on high!

One shriek of "fire!"—and lo! it sweeps

Through yon vast Armoury.

Up, up it springs, on giant wings,That still expand and soar;Can you not hear, through outcries loud,The beaten drum, and the tramp of the crowd,The mighty furnace roar!

Up, up it springs, on giant wings,

That still expand and soar;

Can you not hear, through outcries loud,

The beaten drum, and the tramp of the crowd,

The mighty furnace roar!

Then trophy, and relic, and ancient spoil,One molten mass went down,And Ruin had stretch'd his red hand outTo seize the sacred Crown.

Then trophy, and relic, and ancient spoil,

One molten mass went down,

And Ruin had stretch'd his red hand out

To seize the sacred Crown.

And faces, that else were white with fear,Gleam'd in the woful light;While perils that distant seem'd, drew near,And ghastlier grew the night.

And faces, that else were white with fear,

Gleam'd in the woful light;

While perils that distant seem'd, drew near,

And ghastlier grew the night.

Dread rumour, outstripping the winged flame,Still spoke of powder stored,Ere deep in the moat 'twas safely roll'd,Sparing the walls of that White Tower old,Rich memory's darkest hoard.

Dread rumour, outstripping the winged flame,

Still spoke of powder stored,

Ere deep in the moat 'twas safely roll'd,

Sparing the walls of that White Tower old,

Rich memory's darkest hoard.

And all the while the threaten'd pileRang with a mingled roar,And hurried feet in danger meet,And dread struck more and more.

And all the while the threaten'd pile

Rang with a mingled roar,

And hurried feet in danger meet,

And dread struck more and more.

Yet all night there, within the boundOf that fortress black and stern,The appointed guard went stilly round,And on the customary groundThe Soldier took his turn.

Yet all night there, within the bound

Of that fortress black and stern,

The appointed guard went stilly round,

And on the customary ground

The Soldier took his turn.

High overhead the lurid blazeAfar in fright was seen,Yet there, unmoved, the Sentry pacedEach time-worn tower between.

High overhead the lurid blaze

Afar in fright was seen,

Yet there, unmoved, the Sentry paced

Each time-worn tower between.

Just o'er him broke the flash and smoke,Around was wild uproar;But there he trod, as there had trodHis fellow the night before.

Just o'er him broke the flash and smoke,

Around was wild uproar;

But there he trod, as there had trod

His fellow the night before.

Amidst the deep terrific swellBy myriad noises made,An echo from the ramparts fell—The measured tread of the SentinelIn solitude and shade.

Amidst the deep terrific swell

By myriad noises made,

An echo from the ramparts fell—

The measured tread of the Sentinel

In solitude and shade.

And to and fro, from hour to hour,His deep slow step was heard,Nor could the firemen there have pass'dWithout the secret word.

And to and fro, from hour to hour,

His deep slow step was heard,

Nor could the firemen there have pass'd

Without the secret word.

Thus, silent 'midst a tumult wild;Thus, lonely 'midst a throng;Thus, bent his usual watch to keep,As though the Fortress were asleep,Shadow'd in drear and dead midnight,Yet neighbour'd by that living light,The Sentry paced along!

Thus, silent 'midst a tumult wild;

Thus, lonely 'midst a throng;

Thus, bent his usual watch to keep,

As though the Fortress were asleep,

Shadow'd in drear and dead midnight,

Yet neighbour'd by that living light,

The Sentry paced along!

L. B.

The month "in which Englishmen hang and drown themselves," has this year been signalised by first appearances;—the Heir-Apparent, Heaven bless him! having chosen to arrive in the midst of the bell-ringing and jollity of Lord Mayor's Day. Though a less glorious, scarcely a less welcome one—to all play-goers, artists, honest subjects "moved by concord of sweet sounds," and poets clinging to recollections of departed Genius—has been the entrance of "Norma" at Covent Garden. The artist has well caught her attitude on that evening as she advanced to take her place before her altar: as yet silent. We cannot keep pace with him, or write down a twentieth of the cheers of welcome that burst from heart and hand. Rarely have plaudits been so well merited!

What the Druidess may or may not do for the musical drama in England, let her own oracles expound. We are not prophets, but recorders; and while she is taking care for the future, we have but to say a word or two touching the past career ofMiss Adelaide Kemble. As to the date of her birth-day, that concerns not us. We are reserved when ladies are in the case; and are contented to remind the public that she is the younger daughter of Mr. Charles Kemble—that, to the dramatic heritage derived from him, she adds a right to the musician's gift, being child of one who, some years since, made the name of De Camp famous, as belonging to one of the most fascinating stage-singers of the time. Every circumstance, therefore, of position and education combined to develop the talents which nature had given her. The air she breathed was a stimulus to perpetuate the most classical traditions of music and the drama. To this was added consciousness of the honourable position always maintained by her family, and their liberal general cultivation—exciting her to do her part also, and to become, not merely a voice—not merely agesturepersonified, but an artist: that is, a gifted intelligence, to whom voice and gesture serve but as means of expressing its "fancies chaste and noble," and its elevated conceptions. Miss Kemble has trained herself for her profession, with that thorough-going industry and ardour, without which there are no Siddonses, no Pastas, no Malibrans. Like the second distinguished woman named, her voice, though amply sufficient for every theatrical purpose, may not originally have been awillingone. Nothing, strange to say, has been so fatal to the attainment of the highest musical excellence, as too great a facility and richness of organ. By it Catalani was led astray—by it sundry contemporary warblers——but "comparisons are odious." We are discreet as well as reserved. Enough, that, under Signor Bordogni of Paris, Miss Kemble went through all that severe course of study, to which too few of her countrywomen will subject themselves. She was first heard in London in 1835, where she sang at a few concerts. Though then weighed down by a consciousness of power, with means as yet inadequate for its utterance, though restrained by an excess of timidity, it was even then to be seen that a great dramatic artist was there. We remember two words from the great duet in "Semiramide," which we heard her sing with Tamburini—merely an exulting "O gioja!"—but they said enough to make us sure of what would come. At the end of that season, after appearing at the York Festival, Miss Kemble was heard of no more in England. But ere long, rumours came from Germany of anEnglish lady turning wise heads by her dramatic truth and energy of feeling; and late in the autumn of the year 1838, we were told that another of the Kembles had entered her proper arena, the stage—at no less distinguished a place than the Teatro della Scala, Milan.

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